


Raw

by LittleSpider



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Bondage, Emergency room, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hospital, Hospitalization, ICU, Major Character Injury, Medical, Surgery, Torture, Whump, hurtfic, implied fiskley, platonic fiskley, protective james Wesley, punches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wesley gets hit by a bullet in a firefight outside of the Ranskahov Gym, Fisk faces an agonizing wait to see if his assistant and friend will make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tick

**Author's Note:**

> So. I have decided to torture poor James once again.  
> Oh well.
> 
> It's an interesting way to view the dynamic between Fisk who is usually so stoic and barely shows any emotion that isn't linked to rage and the man that has always stood by his side, doing whatever it takes.
> 
> That and delicious whump...

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Fisk looked out of the window on his side as Wesley sat opposite, the sound of his Cartier watch punctuating the near silence of the journey.

He had arranged to meet Madam Gao, Leland, Nobu and the Ranskahovs at a more discreet location than usual.

Madam Gao was now getting to the age where excessive stairs were putting undue stress on her frail hip and Nobu detested meeting anywhere where they might be disturbed by the common people.

Unfortunately, Leland hated meeting anywhere that wasn't warm and comfortable with its own Scotch supply.

Mr. Potter was out of down securing supplies, so the locale had been somewhere where nobody was happy to be, save perhaps the Ranskahovs.

“...Tell Francis that I want him to keep the car handy...” Fisk began.

At once, Wesley's attention was on him.

“...I don't want to spend any more time with those men than I have to.”

Wesley dismissed a sniff in an amused manner, a smirk twisted his lips.

“...The smell of stale sweat and Vodka can get tiresome.” Wesley added. “Do you think that the others will mind meeting on somebody else's turf?”

Fisk considered the question for a moment before turning to face Wesley.

“They will have to simply...deal with it. I cannot afford to waste my time on pleasing people for their petty...” he took a deep breath and looked back to the window. “...this place will suffice. It's quiet. It's secure. And it's surrounded by the right kind of people.”

Wesley nodded.

“Vladimir and Anatoly will think they have been ascended into your better books. A personal visit, and on their own property.”

Fisk looked to Wesley and offered him an appreciative smile.

For the duration of the journey they sat in comfortable almost-silence until Francis pulled up outside an unfamiliar gymnasium that had faded lettering on the brickwork and boarded up windows.

Francis got out and opened the door to let Wesley out.

Wesley got out, straightening his jacket unnecessarily as he did. Checking the street, left and right before allowing Fisk to disembark.

Across the road he saw some of Nobu's men, and finally some of Madam Gao's gentlemen.

Armed to the teeth.

Wesley stifled a smirk.

_Good, they were taking this seriously then._

Wesley stood back and let Fisk out, closing the door behind him before speaking to Francis quietly.

“...Ensure everything is to plan inside, then keep the car handy, do you understand?”

Francis nodded and headed into the Gym.

Fisk waited patiently besides Wesley.

“...Gao's men are across the road. Nobu's men too.” Wesley remarked quietly.

Fisk grumbled quietly in response.

Francis returned and gave Wesley a brisk nod before returning to the car.

Fisk took a deep breath and walked into the gymnasium, leaving fresh footprints in the scuffed filth of the floor as Wesley followed dutifully behind.

He walked past several sweaty men who wore towels around their tattooed muscular necks and glared at them.

Ranskahovs' men.

Fisk did not pay them any attention and walked through to the dimly lit area which bore several beaten-out punchbags, an old fashioned boxing ring, and a few cheap sets of weights that looked as though they carried tetanus.

It was difficult to tell who looked more uncomfortable.

Nobu in his black suit and permanent look of suspicion. Madame Gao with her expensive Chinese silk skirt and embroidered jacket who was sat stiffly on an upturned crate or Leland who looked as though even breathing was inviting Hepatitis C.

“You are late.” Vladimir remarked to Fisk. “You set up meeting for 7 O Clock. I turn away business to clear space.”

“And I appreciate your efforts, Vladimir.” Fisk began evenly. “I am sure you won't be disappointed.”

Madame Gao looked to the Russian brothers and then to Fisk.

“ _Yí cùn guāng yīn yí cùn jīn, cùn jīn nán mǎi cùn guāng yīn._ ”

Wesley smiled gratefully and looked to Fisk.

“...She said that time is money, but it is difficult to use ones money to get time.” he translated.

Fisk nodded his head formally, smiling in appreciation.

“...Indeed it is, Madame Gao. But it was not money, nor time that kept me today. I have been securing our futures interests within the city.”

“...OUR interests.” Anatoly asked.

“I have recently taken on some new 'interests' within the city. As you may have heard, the cities problem with certain mafia bosses have recently become...unproblematic.”

“That's great. When do we get our girl guide badges?” snarked Leland.

Wesley looked to Leland.

“...And what have you done recently? Aside of tidying up some stray zeros in the columns?” Wesley asked.

“...It can be hard to appreciate the reach of the ripples of a small stone after it has been thrown into a busy stream.” replied Fisk darkly. “...But soon, we shall be reaping the rewards of an uncomplicated Hells Kitchen.”

Nobu looked to him and speaking to Fisk as Wesley listened intently.

“ _Watashi wa jimoto no Mafia no anata no senryaku-tekina satsugai ni anata wa watashitachi ga gōi tochi no keikaku watashi no koyō-sha o zetsumetsu no kiki ni hin shite inai koto o negatte imasu_.”

Wesley looked to Fisk.

“He hopes that your new interests haven't invalidated your agreements with his employer.”

Nobu grit his teeth.

Wesley had paraphrased a little and Nobu hated it.

Fisk shook his head.

“I am a man of my word, Nobu. Rest assured. Our agreements are still valid.”

“Goody.” Leland retorted. “Now to the business at hand. Union Allied--”

“That is not what I have asked you all here to discuss, Leland.” Fisk interrupted.

Leland sighed, throwing up his hands dramatically.

“As long as the numbers make sense at the end of the Fiscal year the whole operation can go to hell!”

Wesley set his jaw.

He didn't care for Leland's tone.

“We've discussed the little farewell party you threw for Rigoletto...” Leland said. “Surely now we can discuss other things.”

“...It was why I was late. The reason I have asked you here was to discuss a more pressing matter.”

He looked to the Ranskahovs.

“Your request for more shipping slots has been approved. I have been able to organize more freedom for you at the docks.”

Anatoly looked to his brother and nodded as Vladimir looked to Fisk.

“...Is good...”

“I trust we'll have to garnish their percentage to cover the upfront costs of bribing the boys in blue.” Leland replied.

Vladimir looked to Leland.

“And how much of money will go to your pocket, Owlsley?”

“Am I being called a thief by a thief? That's rich! How did you guys learn to count in your communist country?”

“ _Ublyudok_...” Vladimir snapped, advancing on Leland.

Madame Gao stood, tapping her cane on the scuffed, dusty floor insistently and tutted before launching into rapid Mandarin.

Wesley looked to her before nodding respectfully and looking to Fisk.

“...She said that the scent of men in this room is giving her a headache and while she rejoices in your victory, she asks if we are done.”

Fisk nodded at once.

“We are done, Madame Gao. Should I walk you to your car?”

Madame Gao smiled, inclining her head demurely before responding.

Wesley smiled.

“She thanks you for your chivalry but insists she is capable.”

Fisk bowed his head once more respectfully and looked to Nobu who walked past him, eyeing him with disdain before following her.

Fisk looked to Leland who appeared to be hanging back.

“...Something I can help you with...Leland?”

“I want to know something.” he began, his cheeks the same colour as his plum coloured bow-tie. “...They get their increased percentage garnished for the cost of the Police. But what do I get for legitimizing their income?”

“...The usual rate.” Fisk responded. “I'm sure that's to your satisfaction.”

“If I'm handling more money, I'm taking more risk. I think I deserve a little more than pocket money.”

Wesley smirked.

“With your legendary skills, Leland. I'm sure it's no risk. You could run the entire operation through St. Agnes' and the nuns there would be certain it was from the collection plate.”

Leland's eye twitched as he grunted and walked away.

Wesley gave a self-satisfied smile. Winding up Leland gave him such satisfaction. It was too easy to provoke the septuagenarian.

Fisk approached the Ranskahovs.

“Thank you...for your hospitality here today...it has been noted.”

Anatoly looked to Vladimir before nodding to Fisk.

“Is not problem. We work together. Yes?”

Fisk nodded before turning to leave.

“Is just one small question.” Vladimir began, raising his finger.

Fisk set his jaw and turned.

“...We remain in control of business. Yes?”

Fisk nodded. “Of course. Your business proceedings will be as they always were. Your own.”

The brothers nodded before turning back to the Gym and conversing in rapid Russian.

Fisk walked through the doors and along the now deserted Corridor as Wesley followed a pace behind.

The tautness in the way Fisk held himself made Wesley wonder which particular aspect of that less than enjoyable meeting made him feel that way.

As Fisk left the gym, he looked across as Gao's entourage was leaving. The last to go out of the invited gathering. The street practically deserted.

He turned to Wesley.

“...I've worked too hard to fail now. Have Leland send me reports of their income. I've spent a lot of time and effort making sure our investments in the Raskahovs business doesn't fall short or our expectations. Nobody can be slacking, not now.”

Wesley nodded.

“Understood.”

Francis moved to open the door of the car for Fisk to get in.

Just then there were a few sudden, deafening shots.

Wesley pushed Fisk down onto the floor of the car, out of danger, out of sight.

A few shots more and the street was silent again but for retreating footsteps on hard, wet tarmac.

Fisk got to his feet again as Francis stood up from his position near the front tyre, his gun in his hands, trained on the street for any more assailants.

“...Sir...” came a voice that was usually bedrock, but was now a rickety bridge.

Fisk looked to Wesley who was holding onto the car's door frame, the other on his stomach.

There was blood leaking from between his shaking fingers and dripping to the grey, dirty pavement as he looked up at Fisk, a pallor on his face and a light film of perspiration covering his face.

“Wesley?”

Wesley's eyelids fluttered closed as he crumpled to the floor, holding his stomach.

Fisk moved in quickly to support him to the floor as he turned to Francis.

“...Don't just stand there! Call an ambulance!”

Francis got out his cell phone, staring at his superiors, one rapidly losing consciousness, the other usually so strong, now looking helpless.

“Wesley...Wesley...speak to me.”

Wesley's eyes opened vaguely, their blue crispness suddenly becoming hazy, his hands on his stomach.

“...Sir...” he rasped, looking up at him. “...you...must get out of here...”

“I won't leave you, Wesley. An ambulance is coming.” Fisk promised, practically holding the man in his arms.

Just then the doors of the gym opened and Vladimir and Anatoly were stood there.

“What is going on?” Anatoly asked as his brother cursed in Russian at seeing Wesley.

“We were attacked, outside of YOUR gym, Wesley has been shot!” snarled Fisk.

Vladimir quickly ran down the steps and dropped to his knees beside Wesley.

Anatoly looked up and down the streets as two or three of his men scattered out behind him. He directed them down the street in both directions quickly.

“Let me see.” Vladimir demanded thickly.

Wesley shook his head weakly, swallowing as his eyes fluttered shut again.

“Do not be a fool! Let me see!”

Wesley's hands peeled away as blood bloomed through the thick navy jacket, and up like red smoke through the crisp white shirt.

Vladimir put his hand over the wound and pressed hard as Wesley gave a faint whimper of pain.

“Here...” He said to Fisk, manoeuvring the man's meaty hand over his roughened tattooed one. “You must cover wound. Keep pressing on wound. Stop bleeding.”

Fisk did as he was told, pressing hard.

Wesley coughed weakly and some blood splattered out of his mouth onto the crisp white shirt collar, teetering over the edge of his pale lips.

“Francis, help me get him into the back seat. Drive as fast as you can to the hospital.”

 


	2. Stay with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk rushes his aide to hospital as fast as he can and tries to deal with the fallout at what happened at the Ranshahovs gym.   
> But who can he turn to now that his right hand man is suddenly unavailable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued patience.

Chapter 2

 

Fisk had his hand pressed against Wesley's stomach as Francis dashed between the cars on the cities roads. Angry horns and police sirens that died down almost as soon as they had started punctuated the space between Wesley's grating breaths as he lay lengthways against the spacious, leather back seat of the car.

Fisk was knelt on the rough carpet-floor of the car and was having trouble staying steady as the car darted from one side of the road to the other.

Fisk could feel Wesley's blood becoming tacky against his fingers, his shallow breathing, the quivering mass of hot, minced flesh that pressed against his palm.

Wesley was slipping in and out of consciousness, his skin becoming pale, a thin layer of sweat over his face as he fought against shock.

“Wesley stay with me.” Fisk barked, trying to rouse the man.

Wesley opened his eyes a crease, his breathing laboured, the blood he had coughed up drying on his grey lips.

His eyes were fading, their cool blueness taking on the Ice-like glaze of a dying man.

“We're getting you help...just...just stay with me.” Fisk replied. “Francis! Can't you go any faster?!”

“I'm already doing thirty above the speed limit, Sir!” he replied.

“Go forty!” Fisk snapped, turning away from Wesley to bark at his driver.

Fisk was trying to work out what happened.

There had been gunfire outside of that gym and in the crossfire, Wesley had been shot. But how? He had been behind an armoured car, not a pace away from him.

God, he had pushed him into the car to protect him from damage.

But only those who were gathered there knew that there was a meeting, and often Fisk never confirmed his presence until he actually arrived. How had they known he was there? And who had broken his confidence in the group?

Wesley broke his train of thought by attempting to cough again that was quickly stifled by a subdued, raspy groan.

Fisk looked back to him.

“It'll be alright, Wesley. Keep your eyes open and on me.”

Wesley looked up at Fisk, fresh, dark red blood on his lips.

“...I'm cold, Sir.” he wheezed.

Fisk swallowed his fear at seeing his assistant, confidante, his friend dying in the back of his car.

Hells Kitchen most powerful man suddenly powerless.

Wesley's eyes flickered closed, his breathing growing wheezy.

“Wesley! JAMES!”

Francis swerved, pulling into the unloading bay of the hospital as Fisk kept his hand pressed on Wesley's stomach, keeping the bleeding down.

Francis got out and threw open the door, running into the hospital to get help.

“We're here Wesley. You're going to be alright, stay with me...”

Wesley was already unconscious, his breathing dangerously fast now.

Fisk dropped his head to listen to see if he could hear Wesley breathing.

The sound of his lungs trickling, almost bubbling with blood made Fisk feel strange, and yet all he had seen, all he had done. This was the thing to turn his stomach over?

“....Stay with me Goddamnit...” he muttered in his assistant's ear.

The door of the car was pulled open and Francis stood back.

Fisk felt exposed, surrounded by the garish green light of the ER and the people who had come to help. A young woman with long black hair and big brown eyes had reached him first, leaning into the car to see what she could do.

“What happened here?”

“...My friend, he was shot...on the street. Please help him...” Fisk said quietly, his hand pressing more firmly on Wesley's stomach.

The woman nodded and looked into the car before looking back at some of the other medics who had followed.

“Get a stretcher out here! Alert Resus!”

 

*

 

Fisk watched as they took Wesley through the double doors of resus after getting him on a stretcher.

Wesley was surrounded by people. Their gloved hands all over him, trying to save him.

They plastered his middle with a dressing, keeping the pressure on it, pressing a plastic mask to his face and squeezed air into it to help him breathe. Shining lights in his eyes.

They had thrust his spectacles at Fisk and where he would not normally permit this level of disrespect, he had to meekly accept that these people would save Wesley's life.

Fisk wanted to follow. Wanted to snap at them. Lose his temper. Punch holes in the walls as all of that pent up rage finally had a place to go now that he wasn't holding his assistant's stomach in.

And the questions...All of the questions...

Where was he shot?

Had the police been called?

How long ago was he shot?

How old was he, who was his next of kin? What was his blood group?

Fisk could only answer so much. Some answers he retained out of necessity, some out of sheer ignorance.

He didn't know Wesley's blood group, why would he? Or where his next of kin lived.

Wesley never spoke about his family, or his home life. He was just there. Always there whenever he needed him. No matter the time of day, or night. The task. All Fisk had to do was pick up the phone and Wesley would be there. Omnipresent. His wise counsel. His confidante. His priest.

Finally, there were a set of double doors he couldn't follow his assistant through as they took Wesley beyond them to work on him.

Fisk was left, his black suit splattered in shining, crusting, drying blood, and bloody hands.

The wrong blood.

Fisk sank into a nearby seat and tried to make sense of what had happened.

The meeting went as well as could be hoped. But nobody seemed overtly insubordinate. The streets had been deserted, Fisk leaving as usual to ensure that everyone was happy with the proceedings. Even Leland with his low level grumbling had little fire-power to back up his poor attitude.

Even the volatile Ranskahov brothers seemed content with their deal in this.

But then the firefight.

Someone had gone to that part of town, that derelict row of buildings in that rough neighbourhood specifically for him.

He would need to deal with the Ranskahovs. It was their turf and they knew more than anyone around that part of town. Their compliance was to be guaranteed. It was a slight on their management of that block if they allowed an ally, or at least an ally of an ally to get shot on their doorstep, let alone the implications it left on the fragile business partnership.

Fisk curled up his hands, the glasses creaked slightly under the pressure as Francis walked up to him, buttoning his jacket as he did.

“Sir.” he began.

Fisk looked up at him.

He looked pristine. Not a spot of blood on him. Nothing to show anything had happened.

“...Yes, Francis?” Fisk replied, looking away again.

“...The car?”

“...The Car?” Fisk asked, a touch impatiently.

“It needs to be cleaned, Sir.”

“Oh. Have one of the men deal with it.” he rumbled quietly. The car was of little importance to him at this moment.

“Yes Sir.” Francis nodded. “Shall I get anything for you?”

“No, thank you W—Francis.”

Francis nodded and left to deal with the matter of the car.

Fisk sighed deeply, placing Wesley's blood smeared glasses in his inside breast pocket of the jacket and trying to gather his thoughts.

Anger and rage rumbled through his body furiously splintering his thoughts into a thousand pieces all of which were scattered and helplessly distracting but everyone had the same destination.

Wesley.

Who had done this to Wesley?

Wesley was essentially a face for him. He did his bidding. He passed on his words. But he had never actually done anything that warranted an attack like that.

Yes, he carried a gun, but had he ever needed to fire it?

That's why he had appointed Francis to assist Wesley. Francis was Fisk's muscle, yes, but his first function served as Wesley's driver and personal guard.

And yes, Wesley had perhaps put pressure on people ensure they complied, but it was part of Wesley's natural talent with people.

He didn't need to break bones, rip skin, or maim people to get them to do as they were asked.

All he needed to do was to say the right thing, in the right tone, with the right sort of counterweight, and it was done.

No...

That bullet had been meant for him. Wilson Fisk. And nobody else.

He leaned forwards heavily as a roundabout spun faster in his mind. Unable to get off.

Circular thoughts of needing someone to speak to and the only person in the world he could trust and speak to being in ER.

He briefly entertained calling his mother but gave it up as foolishness as he realized she wouldn't be able to understand his plight and that it might hurt her to hear that 'That handsome boy' James had been hurt so badly.

Still, to hear her voice might set him at ease. It always had in the past.

When he would call her from the nearest payphone in the middle of the night on the farm, running in his pyjamas for two miles to hear her voice after the nightmares had come again, she would sing to him until he felt calm enough to sleep.

It was past 11.30pm, she would be resting now.

Shaking his head he rested back against the chair, cracking his neck as he did and wondering what he should do next.

It was a cliché, but it felt as though his right arm had gone missing.

 


	3. Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley's life hangs in the balance and Fisk balances what normally never crosses his 'desk'

 

It was some time after the blood drying and cracking on his hands and when Francis returned and stood near to him. A pace or two away, but close enough for comfort.

He announced that the car was being taken care of and that he'd taken the liberty of calling Andrew, John and Henry. Three more of his men. Men that usually only Wesley dealt with at his bequest.

Fisk seemed surprised that Francis had been able to deal with most of the things that needed to be done without further prompting and was impressed by his initiative.

He was clearly taking the attempt on Fisk's life seriously enough to call in additional security.

Fisk had already seen the police arrive and look towards him. Initially, he had turned to his right to give an order but realized that the person he gave the order to usually was the reason they were in here in the first place.

He looked to Francis, who was standing by him expectantly, watching the police speaking with one of the Doctors who had moved out of the ER without so much as a sideways glance at Fisk.

“...Francis?”

Francis moved forwards.

“Sir?”

“...I want you to reach out to our friends in the Police Department and ask them to take the heat off of this. I'd rather deal with it internally. No uniforms, and no contact. At least not until we know who is responsible.”

Francis nodded and prepared to walk away.

“I'll make the calls.”

“...Make it quick. I don't want to have to deal with those officers personally.”

Francis nodded again and left to make the relevant calls.

Fisk tilted his head and cracked a vertebrae in his neck, resting his hands on his knees.

His hands itched from the blood that coated them, he was desperate to wash them, but didn't dare move in case they had news on Wesley.

He would wait until Francis returned.

He clenched his fists, feeling the sticky skin close in on itself. It felt almost indecent.

When he found the person responsible for Wesley's injuries, he would take great pleasure in ripping the skin from their muscle and the muscle from their bones.

He would not stop until they had paid for his blood with theirs and more. Until his skin was torn up from the bone and sinew he had shattered with his fists. Until he ached and was coated with blood, brains, and tissue.

The thought soothed him like a whiskey before bed. Or a hot shower after a rain storm.

Francis finally returned.

Fisk looked at him in anticipation.

“It's been attended to, Sir.”

“Good.” Fisk nodded. “Stay here.”

“Sir?”

“I'm going to freshen up.” he replied, getting to his feet.

“Sir, I can't let you go alone.”

Fisk pinned him with a stare.

“...I will be fine. Thank you, Francis.”

 

*

 

It was like a purging. Watching all of that blood flake off his hands and disappear into the water tingeing it scarlet.

He rubbed his fingers over his knuckles, over his hands and washed Wesley's blood away in the cold water.

He sighed before draining the water and giving his hands a final rinse and drying them on the green paper towels.

It was shaping up to be a long night.

He would wait for news. Both from the Ranskahov's and from the Doctors. It felt so strange.

When a man as powerful as he was had eyes and ears in every department in the city, the idea of him leaving the fate of the man who was his right hand, confidante and friend to someone he had no sway over felt wrong. It felt alien. It felt unsafe.

The Russians on the other hand, they would either come up with something or risk their livelihoods.

This was not only a personal insult to Fisk, but also a slight to the brothers' turf and one that would likely be repaid with violence.

As he balled up the green paper towel and threw it into the bin he walked back into the corridor, his eyes looking for Francis who was speaking to a Doctor in green, blood tinged scrubs.

Fisk walked swiftly over as Francis gestured to the Doctor that he should be speaking to the taller man.

“...are you the James' next of kin?”

James?

He had rarely ever used his first name, perhaps that was a flaw.

Fisk nodded grimly.

He supposed he was in a way.

“We've stabilized him, and we're taking him to surgery now.” the Doctor began. “He's lost a lot of blood. You were frankly lucky that he made it to the hospital.”

Fisk felt a coldness pour from his bones into the pit of his stomach.

“Have you spoken to the police yet?” the Doctor asked.

Fisk shook his head uncertainly.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Fisk remembered the gunshots, being pushed down, seeing the blood pouring over Wesley's shaking fingers.

“...It's hazy...” Fisk admitted. “...He was shot in the stomach, he collapsed, we rushed straight here.”

“It can be traumatic witnessing something like this. Details may come back.”

“...Please, if there is anything you need...I am...an influential man...I will move the necessities into place...” Fisk floundered.

The Doctor raised his hand and nodded.

“...I understand your concerns, but rest assured, we will do everything we can Mr...?”

“...Wesley....” Fisk replied, barely considering it.

“...Mr. Wesley.” The Doctor confirmed. “We'll update you as soon as we can.”

Fisk nodded and shook the Doctor's hand, wrapping his clean hands around the Doctor's.

“...Thank you.”

The Doctor excused himself, and left.

Fisk watched him leave and turned to Francis.

“...Reach out to Rosenberg, get him to contact me as soon as possible. Have someone pack me an overnight bag and to bring me a fresh suit, black.”

Francis nodded and reached into his pocket for his cell.

 

*

 

The hours that passed seemed to drag yet were lost in the comings and goings of other patients and the arrival of his men and a hold-all and a suit bag

Fisk wasted no time in changing out of the soiled suit in the cramped space of disabled bathroom and handing off the stained one to give back to Mr. Potter for 'cleaning'.

As he removed his jacket, he felt something in the inside pocket.

They were Wesley's spectacles, a large, dry, bloody thumbprint across the left lens.

Wesley's blood, his thumb.

Fisk carefully passed the plastic lens under the warm water of the tap and dried them off with his pocket square before putting them aside.

Changing into a new suit, freshening up renewed his strength, his concentration, his purpose.

Washing his face in the small, stooped sink he ran his hands over his head and looked into the mirror.

As soon as Wesley was back from Theater, he would move. Make arrangements.

There was a brief rap on the disabled stall's door.

“...Wait.” Fisk barked as he slid on his jacket and opened the door.

It was Francis, he was holding a plastic bag of items, all of them familiar.

“Sir...Mr. Wesley's personal effects...”

Fisk studied the bag and took it from Francis.

The polythene bag contained an inventory detailing what it contained, and several items.

A Cartier watch, still ticking.

A wallet, leather.

A cell phone, with 8 missed calls from various numbers.

A keyring with two keys on and no keyring.

Everything that Wesley carried on his person.

Fisk reached into the bag, retrieving Wesley's phone and unlocked it before checking the calls list.

Three were from Vladimir. Four from Anatoly. One from Leland.

Fisk never normally dealt with matters over the phone, usually Wesley took care of these things and informed him afterwards so that he could make a decision.

Tentatively, he called back Vladimir, the brother he preferred dealing with.

He was volatile, but that volatility made him more honest.

“... _Govorit_...”

“You called...” Fisk began, uncertain what he should be starting the conversation with.

“...I have information.”


	4. Grey: An absence of color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk finally receives news about Wesley and realizes that his usually stalwart companion is after all just human.

Fisk was sat in the waiting area for relatives waiting on their loved ones, Francis at his side, waiting for news.

Wesley had been in surgery for over six hours, and now the sun was rising outside.

Fisk felt the grain of his whiskers prickling against his face. He rarely stayed awake all night any more, always getting at least five hours sleep so that he was prepared for whatever the day held.

It felt strange to feel the hair grow through his skin. Almost indecent. Primal.

He had returned Vladimir's call and had listened to what the Russian had told him.

“Our men had been guarding left and right of block. Buildings from opposite, derelict. Nobody leave area. Nobody return to area since. No police come.”

“...I want a bounty. Put out the word. $500,000 for the man who shot Wesley. Alive. But I want proof.”

“People are not so stupid. They will ask question.”

“Let me make it more appealing, Vladimir. If YOU find out who it is, I will double the amount and waiver the fee on the security on the docks for the next 6 months.”

“...Understood.”

Now every Russian in the city who was in with the Ranskahovs was looking for the person who did this to Wesley.

Hopefully by noon, the man would be stood in front of him, soiling himself with panic.

He decided that Leland's call could wait.

Francis had furnished him with coffee as he liked it. Black, no sugar. A fresh cup every time the old one had been drained.

Wesley had taught him well.

Wesley did so much for him, he often didn't realize just what Wesley took care of on his behalf. Wesley micromanaged everything regarding Fisk's life from the time his suits arrived from Mr. Potter after being cleaned in the morning, to what time he ate in the evening and where.

Without Wesley, life suddenly seemed like it had more friction to it, and it was less than 12 hours after what had happened, happened.

Fisk replayed the scene in his mind, trying to guess something, remember something.

...Gunfire...Close.

He was pushed to the floor of the car, his knees hitting the carpet hard, he had jostled his knee against the seat, but Wesley had pushed him straight into to car, completely.

More gunfire. Closer. Francis.

Then silence.

He had stood up, checking for anyone in the street, and there was nobody. Just the scent of gunfire and fresh blood.

My God...there hadn't been a exit wound...

The bullet should have passed straight through him. Wesley was a slender man who wasn't remarkably athletic, it should have gone through him and out the other side and yet it didn't.

The bullet was still inside him.

And that blood...

All of that blood...

That blood that just poured...

He'd seen blood before.

He'd watched blood seep out of his fathers corpse as his mother hacked at it and pool on the linoleum floor, the sound of his fathers masonry saw on his bones. The grinding that didn't even sicken his stomach.

This...This was wrong.

That blood felt wrong. It felt like a mistake he could push back into Wesley and make it better.

But no matter how hard he pressed, it never got better.

He ran his hand over his fatigued face again, trying to work some warmth back into it when the door opened.

Several faces turned towards it, Francis first before he even got the chance to react.

“...Collingwood?”

A middle aged black woman and a younger black man got up and walked to the Doctor.

Fisk sighed furiously, not enough to create a scene but enough to ease the pressure in his own chest.

Everyone here felt the same way, he knew that.

 _'When it rains, you're not the only person to get wet, Wilson...'_ His mother would say to him when he was a child.

But this was more than just his friend, his assistant. This was a scratch that the whole of Hells Kitchen would see, and without the appropriate retribution, it would soon heal into a big ugly scar.

It was all so complicated and the only person he could truly ask was the man who he was waiting to hear about.

A moment later, the door opened again, a different Doctor.

“Wesley?” he called out, looking around.

Fisk slowly got to his feet and shuffled forwards.

“...Yes?”

“James Wesley's next of kin?”

“Yes.” Fisk nodded.

“...Please follow me.” the Doctor nodded, holding open the doors for him.

Francis took the weight of the door as Fisk walked through, following the doctor down a narrow corridor that smelled strongly of layer upon layer of disinfectant and bodily waste.

The Doctor walked them a little more out of the way into an area that was more open and seemed to be in the main hospital. Tannoys called for doctors, and specialists

Fisk was growing slowly more impatient the longer the Doctor delayed in giving him news until finally, the Doctor opened a final door and nodded to him to go in.

It was a grey room.

Grey furniture. Grey walls. Grey tables. All Grey and dimly lit. And stale.

Very stale.

Fisk stepped in, Francis on his heels as the Doctor cast an eye over him.

“...Uh...Is this man a relative?”

Fisk nodded in a manner he hoped was certain.

“...James made it through surgery.” he began before looking at his clipboard.

Fisk felt a shudder of relief run through him.

He hadn't really been sure of what to expect. All he had was that each second that Wesley wasn't dead, was a second closer to him surviving. But against what odds?

“...Will he be alright?” Fisk asked reverantly.

The Doctor looked to Fisk.

“I'm not going to sugar coat it, Mr. Wesley. The bullet did a lot of damage. We located it in the lung cavity.”

Fisk had to work to keep his mouth dropping open.

“...how? How is that possible...? He was Shot in the stomach...”

The doctor looked to Fisk, unsure of how to proceed.

“...how much did you see?

“Not much.” Fisk admitted looking down. “I wish I had more information. We were stood on the pavement. He was behind me.. We were near our car.”

Fisk's brain was ticking quickly through how this could have happened.

How had this happened...how had the bullet ended up there...?

He had been shot from the front. The blood was pouring out of his stomach, through his jacket. Fisk had been pressing so hard on Wesley he was sure he must have broken something and yet the blood didn't stop...

But he had been coughing up blood...his shirt was flecked with it and it was drying on his lips as he was rushed into hospital.

Fisk looked to the Doctor who was still speaking.

He had zoned out.

“...peritoneal penetration which led to us performing a Thoracostomy to ease James' breathing. We've intubated to ease pressure. He's lost a lot of blood. You were lucky to get him here so quickly, a few minutes later and he'd have been dead.”

Fisk nodded. Understanding the gravity of the Doctors words.

“Can I see him?”

“He's currently in recovery in ICU. But you're welcome to sit with him.”

“...Intensive care.” Fisk replied.

“Yes. We're going to monitor him for the next 48 hours, and when he's stable, hopefully begin re-constructive surgery.”

Fisk nodded.

“I'd like to sit with him.

The Doctor nodded.

“We've put him on a ventilator to ease his breathing and he's in an induced coma. So, don't be alarmed at what you see. He's not in any pain and is getting the best possible care.”

Fisk nodded and looked to the blue sign that hung above the doors to the corridor straight ahead.

Intensive Care. That's where he was.

The Doctor nodded.

“Try not to be alarmed.” he repeated before leading Fisk to follow. “...and I'm afraid we can only allow one person in. One of you will have to stay behind.”

Francis immediately fell back as though he wasn't permitted to take another step as Fisk carried on, following the Doctor into the sterile corridor.

There was a feeling of immediate hush that seemed to knock him back like a gust of wind as soon as he entered.

The Doctor's tone dropped.

“...all of our patients here are monitored in 15 minute intervals, so James will be very well cared for during his time here. Hopefully over the next 12-24 hours, we should seen an improvement and we can begin working on a full recovery. If not, well...we'll see where our options leave us...”

Fisk was nodded meekly, all he wanted was to see Wesley alive with his own two eyes.

“...Carol, which room for James Wesley?”

“4.” she replied in an equally hushed tone.

The Doctor nodded once and led Fisk towards another section of the unit. He quickly checked the name on the door and nodded before opening the door quietly with the softest squeak.

The sound that bled out into the corridor was immediate.

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep-Bleep. Bleep. Bleep-Bleep.

Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssst. Pssssssssst.

Fisk stepped in, ducking slightly to avoid the low door frame and looked to the bed.

“...I'm going to give you a moment. I can understand how difficult this must be to witness. I'll be at the nurses station at the end of the wing if you have any questions...”

The Doctor withdrew, closing the door.

Fisk felt something in his chest crack open like an egg. But there was no yolk. Just this hollowness that seemed to hurt like the way that Ice burned your skin before it become just cold.

James...looked cold.

Fisk walked forwards a few steps, making note of the wires, the tubes, the canisters, drips and machinery as he placed his steps, leaning over him.

His eyes were closed and a plastic tube held between his teeth was secured with a length of colored fabric elastic, piping Oxygen into his lungs.

His usually perfectly combed hair was tousled and matted.

He looked pale. So pale and cold.

Fisk's eyes moved down to where the damage was. The masses of bandages and dressings on his chest and stomach that was bare but for strips of surgical tape and smears of Orange disinfectant.

Fisk had never seen James without a tie, let alone a shirt or vest and the wires and covered his body seemed to be in stark contrast with the white skin.

It felt almost, indecent.

A green woollen blanket covered the rest of him up as he lay, utterly lifeless on the bed.

Being kept breathing and alive by these machines.

These fallible machines.

A sudden panic gripped him.

What if these machines failed? What if they were sabotaged? What if he stopped responding to the medication, or he bled out before they could fix it.

Fisk sank into the nearest chair and reached out to hold James' hand uncertain if it was to comfort for himself or for James and wrapped his hand around it.

James' hand remained lifeless in his, the oximeter clipped to his forefinger protruding awkwardly. Cold and unresponsive, the white knuckles that were untouched by grazing or bruising testement that out of all of the men that Fisk had working for him, James was the only one who never engaged in violent acts.

He had never even needed to fire his gun.

...He should have been wearing armor...if he was wearing armor, this wouldn't have happened.

Fisk leaned forwards, stroking the hair on his head back into its usual parting.

“I'm going to find who did this, James.” he began quietly. “I'm going to make them suffer for it. There won't be a dark alleyway, a sewer they can hide in. I...” the words did not come easy to him. “...I need you to...hold on, James. As long as you can...I will have Rosenberg here by morning...I will make sure you get the very best of treatment...”

Fisk looked at his friends face.

The grey-toned skin, the brown tinged skin under his eyes, the unfamiliar strapping that seemed to press against his face.

It all looked so...different.

Nothing of what Fisk was used to remained of his friend.

Reaching into inner pocket, he pulled out Wesley's glasses and placed them on the unit next to his bed, ready for when he would need them.

He squeezed Wesley's hand as gently as he could.

Letting him know he was not alone.


	5. Digits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley has made it through the night, but Fisk isn't interested in small mercies. He wants a miracle.

Fisk had sat next to Wesley's bedside all night.

At first the fifteen minute intervals between the nurses visits as she took the clipboard from the bottom of the bed, scribbled the numbers into the boxes before leaving were irritating but necessary. At some point, he may have dozed off because when he opened his eyes next, there was sunlight filtering through the window into Wesley's bed

For a few blessed moments, he had forgotten where he was, or what had happened and he reached for his phone, expecting a text message from Wesley.

He looked to the bed and Wesley was still laying there. Inanimate.

Fisk leaned forwards and took his hand again.

It was still quite cold, as it had been last night.

He had held it for quite some time, trying to instil warmth into it from his own hands.

He had studied Wesley's hand in his.

The smooth skin that had never had blood stain them before tonight. The smooth knuckles that had never been balled into fists and used to beat someone to death. Without scars. Without bruises.

James had never had to. He had Francis to do that for him—if it was at all necessary.

Fisk smiled briefly as he recalled it.

“...I...remember, when we started...working together. I wanted...you to take...defence classes. Have one of the men train you...to be able to fight a little better. You declined and said that it wouldn't be necessary.”

He squeezed his hand in his larger hand.

“...I wasn't convinced, so I had you hire Francis.”

Wesley's eyelashes were gathered thickly on his pallid cheeks, a former sweat that had dried to a tacky sheen.

Fisk put his hand back down and got up, getting some feeling back into dead legs and deader arms as he looked to the clock on the wall. It was around 7am, and he was still waiting for news from the Russians.

He reached to check his phone for messages.

Strangely enough, he didn't have any.

He shrugged and put his phone back into his pocket before sitting on Wesley's bed, careful not to disturb the wires or tubes and looked to him.

His dry lips. His tousled hair. The way his chest mechanically heaved as the machine took breaths on his behalf.

“...perhaps I should have insisted.”

Just then, a nurse walked in.

Fisk quickly got to his feet.

“...sorry.”

“Mr. Wesley, your...son?” she began questioningly. “...needs to speak with you.”

It took a few moments for it to make sense and figured she meant Francis.

He nodded and looked to Wesley.

“...has he improved?” he asked.

“He's stable.” she replied. “It's the best we can hope for, for now.”

“Thank you....uh...”

“Claire.” she smiled.

“Claire. Yes. Thank you.” Fisk replied before getting to his feet and heading back through to where Francis was waiting.

Francis looked weary.

His eyes were bloodshot and his tie was loosened.

“...yes?”

“Sir.” Francis began, looking nervous. “...Forgive me if I should speak outta turn. But, I know that Mr. Wesley would agree...Y'need to go home and rest.”

Fisk knew that he needed to rest at some point, especially if he was needed to assert his dominance over the group once more now that this attack had left him open to scrutiny. But the idea of leaving Wesley alone here without his attention made him more uncomfortable.

He knew that Wesley would insist, arrange for a car to take him home and brief him on what he had missed when he woke.

Francis, however, looked as bad as he felt. He needed rest too.

“...Have Carl and Peter come in.” he decided. “I want you, and the others to...to rest.”

“And you, sir?” asked Francis.

“I will rest.” he confirmed. “...You may drive me home once they get here.”

Francis looked relieved.

“I will call them in. Oh, sir. Mr. Wesley's phone has been ringing. I don't know the access code.”

Fisk didn't either but he held out his hand to take it.

Francis opened the bag that he held that contained all of Wesley's items and handed him the phone that was still sticky with blood.

It had sixteen missed calls.

Fisk sighed and nodded, taking it and sliding it into his inner pocket.

Francis nodded and retrieved his own phone to arrange cover for their absence at the hospital.

Fisk looked at the phone and wondered what the access code could possibly be.

Naturally, security was an issue for Wesley's phone. He had all of their contacts and made the phone calls on Fisk's behalf.

But which code would work?

Fisk walked back in to the ICU and walked towards the room Wesley was in. The young nurse in there with the dark hair was changing one of the bags of fluid that was hanging up.

No doubt some kind of saline or something else.

A bag of blood was hanging besides it.

Type O.

Wesley was Type O.

Fisk didn't realize how little he knew about his assistant, about his friend. And yes, knowing somebody's blood type was more than basic knowledge. He realized without that information, he didn't have a hope of unlocking his cell.

He sat down in the chair next to Wesley as Claire, the nurse smiled at him.

She had a very pretty smile.

Fisk felt awkward. It was rare that he found himself in the company of someone unless he had arranged it and small talk was one of his failings.

“...Have you been working all night?” he asked.

She nodded, discarding a pair of blue gloves into the bin in the corner of the room and picking up the clipboard before writing on it.

“I finish in twenty minutes. Unless we have a code blue.”

“Ah.”

There was nothing more he could think of to say.

“...Are you...?” she began. “...related?”

“Brothers.” Fisk replied easily. He had already formulated the lie earlier.

“Ah.” she nodded, putting the clipboard back.

“...Our mother...he's...a half brother...” he lied uneasily. This was advanced. Normally, he never usually had reason to lie outright, he merely manipulated the truth until it became more palatable.

She nodded.

“Have the police got the person who did it?”

Fisk shook his head.

“No. Not yet.”

Claire nodded.

“This city gets worse every day.”

Fisk swallowed, his eyes on his friend.

“...Yes. Yes it does.”

 

*

 

Fisk had been taken home by Francis as soon as Carl and Peter arrived. He had set Carl to watch over Wesley personally as Peter took secondary sentry outside of ICU.

He would take no chances.

The first thing Fisk did was shower, before falling into bed. He was exhausted.

Fisk had nightmares.

Every night without fail.

Always about the same thing. His father.

But tonight, the ensemble was different.

As he closed his eyes and felt sleep washing over him, he feared what he may see in those dreams.

But there was no James. No bullets. No blood.

Nothing.

It was a completely dreamless sleep born of exhaustion and tiredness that left him not quite refreshed when he woke up but more alert.

He woke up to the buzzing of a phone nearby on his glass bedside cabinet and sat up quickly to retrieve it.

It was Wesley's phone and it was ringing again.

And he didn't know the code.

He sat up rapidly, staring at the number. He recognized the last four digits as Leland's number.

He stared at the phone while it was ringing until it rang off.

What was the code?!

He sighed and began to think.

Birthdays? Special dates? Special numbers?

Anything that Wesley had mentioned?

Fisk rubbed his face and put the phone down only to have his own cell phone ring.

Only a select number of people had his own personal cell phone.

It was Leland.

Fisk cleared his throat and answered.

“Yes.”

“Finally! I was beginning to wonder if you two had eloped. I've been trying to get a hold of Wesley for the last--” he sighed. “...It doesn't matter.”

“...Have you spoken to the Ranskahovs?” Fisk asked.

“...Why would I have? Unless I needed a good recipe for Borscht or how to get blood out of denim.”

“Wesley was shot last night. After the meeting.”

“...what?!”

“He was shot in the stomach.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. He's in the hospital.”

“Who did it?”

“If I knew that, they would be dead already.”

“I...Is there anything you want me to do?”

“No. Keep everything as it is. I do not want this advertised, Leland.”

“Alright. Uh. Are you there now? Which hospital?”

“No. I'm...actually, I wanted to ask you something. Wesley's account...”

“Yeah?”

“...the last 4 digits?”

“6676, why?”

“Thank you Leland.”

“Wait, I--”

Fisk hung up.

Whatever it was Leland wanted could wait.

Fisk took Wesley's phone and typed in the code.

Nothing.

Fisk sighed and got out of bed, ready to shower.

 

*

Francis was already awake when Fisk called and agreed to pick him up asap.

Fisk had tried a few more numbers in the meantime as he dressed for the day in his usual black suit.

He had tried Wesley's birth date, the last four digits of Wesley's cell, the last four digits of his own cell.

In a fit of vanity, he had even tried his own birth date.

Nothing.

It was infuriating and knew that if he took it to an expert, the phone would likely wipe itself before it would yield itself.

“Have you heard anything?” Fisk asked, around fifteen minutes into the journey.

“No.” Francis replied.

Fisk nodded and looked out of the window into a passing Gallery shop.

Fisk cleared his throat and looked to Francis who was concentrating on the road.

“...The car...”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you get it taken care of?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Anything to report?”

“Just blood, sir. They took care of it.”

“No broken windows?”

“No sir.”

Fisk made an almost disappointed noise. He was hoping for some clues. Now he would have to rely on those Russians.

Wesley had always wondered why Fisk dealt with the Russians. Now, Fisk was hoping they would prove their worth and resourcefulness.

“...Francis.” Fisk said suddenly.

“Sir?”

“To the Gym.”

“Sir, I don't think that's wise--”

“The Gym, Francis.” Fisk said more sternly.

Francis may have objected further, but instead he simply indicated.

 


	6. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk continues on his mission to find who tried to assassinate Wesley and finds an unusual clue outside the Gym

Francis practically jumped out of his car when they pulled up at the Gym. The car that followed did the same.

It seems since the attempt on his life, his men were taking the threat seriously. Fisk wondered if it was the shock of losing Wesley from their number had caused some sort of contingency plan to unfold.

Francis nodded once to the car behind as he opened Fisk's door, leading him right into the gym.

Fisk's feet touched the dirty grey pavement as he looked to the floor, looking for any sign of blood.

It had been cleaned away, evidently as nothing of last nights encounter remained. The Russian's were taking this equally as seriously.

 _Good_.

Francis opened the door to the gym and flanked him, not quite matching Wesley's usual quiet speed but attempting to cover as best he could.

He was young, and eager to please and as such showed a somewhat boisterous nature that was not suited to the kind of impression that Fisk liked to give.

Wesley was experienced, and knew that a quiet clearing of the throat spoke more than a bellowing command during tense negotiations.

Two of the Russian's men came to meet them in the sweat stained corridor.

“What is this?” one of them demanded, sneering at Francis like a growling attack dog.

“Sergei!”

It was Vladimir, he was discussing something with his brother.

“... _Pust' nim cherez i smotret' dveri. Ya ne khochu, chtoby yego bespokoili_.” he repeated in fast Russian.

The men parted, unblocking the corridor.

“...I have been trying call you. You do not answer your phone?” Asked Vladimir.

Fisk looked to the two men who did not bother to be hurried to leave.

“...Somewhere more private.” Fisk said quietly. “I do not care for your...court.”

Vladimir gave a bemused scoff and nodded, walking through the corridor towards a battered looking office.

“This way. You drink coffee?” Anatoly asked.

“I do. But I am not thirsty.” Fisk retorted as he followed, unused to being treated in this manner. Wesley would have made all of the arrangements to suit Fisk as opposed to the other way around. Done so in a manner that would have meant that Fisk did not lose face.

Then again, it was out of necessity that he forewent such small comforts.

The office he was led in to was slightly tidier and cleaner than the rest of the gym with mostly padded seats and a desk that was awash with papers and a bottle of Vodka with several half clean glasses dotted around.

Vladimir poured a coffee from the percolator and one for his brother before Fisk looked to them, not sitting. His fists were balled up and releasing periodically.

“You said you called.” He prompted with an irked jut of the head.

“Yes. I call your 'assistant's' phone. I assume you would answer.” he replied.

Fisk did not want to admit he didn't have access so he shrugged.

“I have been otherwise engaged.”

Vladimir shrugged and took a sip of the bitter smelling drink.

“I have told others of your offer.” he said thickly. “You have many eyes on street tonight.”

“Yes. Well, that is good news. However, I was under the impression that YOU ran this part of town, Vladimir.”

“We do.” rebuffed Anatoly.

“So how is it that my assistant was gunned down on your doorstep without you knowing about it? I was under...the impression that if someone sneezed in this part of town you had already sold them a handkerchief.”

Francis' lip twitched slightly and he scratched his face to hide it.

“Whoever shot your 'assistant'...” began Vladimir dangerously. “...was not on _our_ streets.”

“You understand that sounds impossible.” Fisk replied..

“Maybe.” Anatoly replied. “On day of your visit. Men on every corner of every block. Nobody see your problem.” he shot his brother a side ways look. “We take security very seriously.”

Fisk swallowed.

“You understand the gravity of what would happen if Wesley died?”

“You lose assistant. New boy here get promoted.” Anatoly replied flippantly.

Fisk curled his fists up.

“An unauthorized fatality on your turf. Of my personal assistant. Of my friend. Would no doubt negatively affect your presence in this city. Your ability to do business. Your monetary flow.”

Anatoly looked to Vladimir who had put his cup down now.

He had got their attention.

“I would hate to see such...respected businessmen...such as yourselves...undergo that hardship. Especially given your reputation in Moscow.”

Vladimir and Anatoly conversed rapidly in Russian.

Fisk was pleased to see that his threat had not gone undetected despite its subtlety.

Just then Fisk's phone rang in his jacket. Unnoticed by the two brothers who seemed to be heavily involved in their discussion.

He looked and saw that it was Doctor Rosenberg.

He turned away from the conversation and answered the phone.

“Doctor Rosenberg.”

“Wilson.” came the response.

“Thank you, for coming at short notice. I will be there as soon as I have attended to business...how...how is he?”

“He's in a bad way, Wilson.” came the Doctor's response. “I've just looked his surgical notes. It's a miracle he survived.”

“...do you have anything that can help me find who did this to Wesley?” he asked quietly.

“The bullet entered at two inches above the navel, and travelled up before perforating his lung cavity. Your assistant was shot from below.”

“...Below?”

“Judging by the damage done, in my years of experience. I'd say that the gun was fired 4-6 feet away? You could ideally do with having the bullet studied by ballistics experts. They can tell you a lot more, Wilson. Perhaps stay away from balcony's at your next engagement?”

“...Below.” Fisk repeated. “Doctor, please stay at the hospital. I'll be there in an hour.”

With that Fisk hung up and turned to Francis.

“Ready the car.”

The Russians were still speaking, a little more animatedly now as Fisk walked up to them.

“...Come with me.”

 

*

 

Vladimir, Fisk and Anatoly were all gazing down a drain that was directly outside of the front of the Gym.

Dirty, grimy, but for a freshly scratched bar that bore signs of recent wear and tear. It was so obvious it was painful.

“.. _.Nu ti dajosh_!” Anatoly remarked. “...He was shot from gutter!”

“...That is why you did not see anyone, Vladimir. They shot from the gutter.” Fisk pronounced gravely.

“I cannot 'police' gutters.” replied Vladimir testily but the shock was evident on his scarred face. “But is...legitimate security concern.”

Francis stepped forwards.

“Sir. These sewers are accessible by anyone who owns a crowbar and doesn't object to crawling through six inches of leaves, shit and used condoms.”

“Crawling?” Anatoly prompted.

Francis nodded.

“The main sewers you can walk through, but these? Crawl spaces. Someone probably pretty lean.”

Fisk looked to Anatoly.

“You have security cameras, I take it.”

He nodded.

“Footage from that night. I want copies by tonight.”

Anatoly looked to his brother.

He muttered a few things and Vladimir sighed and nodded.

“I want this... _kindness_....remembered.” he said quietly. “I will call when I have information.”

Fisk nodded as he turned.

“Cordon off this area. I will be sending a team.”

Anatoly went to complain.

“...You will be compensated, Anatoly!” he barked, turning back. “This matter requires your full attention. Do not make me demonstrate what happens if this...paper cut...tears open into a...gaping wound.”

With that Fisk nodded to Francis who opened the door of the office for him.

 

*

When Fisk got back to the hospital, Francis hot on his heels, Rosenberg was talking to the head of the department.

It seemed that Rosenberg's list of credentials and name carried weight and the department was at least trying to cooperate.

Fisk walked up to the two men.

He had a lot of respect for Rosenberg, and after saving Wesley's life, this Doctors life so he did not wish to seem unduly rude.

“...Excuse me.” he began somewhat awkwardly.

“...Wilson.” Rosenberg smiled, taking his elbow and shaking his hand.

Fisk noted that he seemed tired and jet-lagged but his eyes were as sharp and as keen as ever.

“Doctor Rosenberg.” Fisk nodded, clasping his hand and shaking once. “...How is he?”

 

*

Fisk was sat at Wesley's bedside. He had not changed much since this morning other than his hands had been moved and perhaps his color had taken on a more healthy tone.

“I am staying for a few days to over see the surgery.” Rosenberg began. “Its a delicate reconstruction. I plan to ensure that it goes well.”

“If he...survives this?” Fisk began, looking up at Rosenberg. “...will he be as he was before? As active as he was?”

“He should be. I see no reason, provided no complications arise, that he shouldn't be back to normal within 6 months. He will have quite an interesting scar though.”

Fisk smiled appreciatively to the old Doctor.

“...I...Wesley...means a lot to me, Doctor.”

Rosenberg nodded.

“He'll be fine, Wilson.”

“...He was shot from the gutter, Doctor. My assistant....my friend was shot in a filthy street outside of a Russian gym...”

“...Wilson, when you asked me to work with you, I asked you to keep me out of--”

“Yes, yes...” began Fisk impatiently. “To not involve you. It's just...”

He looked to Wesley, laying in the bed, covered in wires and tubes, not even breathing alone.

“...I did so much, to get where I am today. And yet, as powerful as I am, and yes, I am powerful. I still couldn't protect...that which I hold close.”

 


	7. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk goes back to the Gym when the Ranskahov's find something of interest...

 

It was around 4pm when the Ranskahov's finally made contact again.

Fisk had been sat at Wesley's side, reading aloud to him from a book that he had borrowed from the waiting area.

It was _The Once and Future King_ By TH White.

It was the only book that wasn't aimed at children or women and Fisk felt that it would break the monotonous eternity of the beeping and somehow reach Wesley, that somehow his voice would permeate the gulf of unconsciousness.

As he read, occasionally, his eyes would drift towards Wesley to look for movement, a change in breathing, a flicker of an eyelash.

But he lay there, still and unmoving, his lips parted by the tube helping him breathe as Fisk sat by his side, occasionally taking his hand and rubbing the soft knuckles to ease him back into consciousness.

As soon as his phone rang, he put the book down beside Wesley's hand and answered.

“...speak..”

“We have news.”

It was Vladimir.

“Go on.”

“Is better if you see with your own eyes.”

“I cannot attend. I will have Francis pick up a copy.”

“нет. Tape does not leave. Is serious enough for you to come collect.”

Fisk's fists balled up again, the rough skin threatening to crack.

“I do not appreciate...your tone...” he puffed.

“...you are not only one, with need for secrecy.”

Fisk heard the note of concern in the Russian's voice and looked to Wesley.

He looked inanimate enough. He did not really wish to leave him again.

“...I will be there shortly, and I pray that you have something of supreme importance to show me for calling me to heel like some...common stray.”

The phone went dead.

Fisk put the phone away and looked to Wesley.

He picked up the book again, carefully marked the page with a leaflet on plasma donation he had found outside and put it on his bedside table.

“...I must go. I am trying to find who did this to you. I will leave someone on your door, and then I will come back and finish the chapter.”

He sat on the bed and soothed Wesley's wayward black curls that had dried now and was sticking up oddly.

Fisk had never realized before now that Wesley in fact had curly, quite fluffy hair that he appeared to keep in check with gel and wax.

“...I think...a hair cut...is in order, James.” he began, getting up from the bed and correcting Wesley's glasses that sat on the bedside table now, next to his jug. “...though, between your work and the neccesity of sleep, I wonder when you run your errands.”

He gave a soft sigh and headed outside where two of his men stood guard over the door.

“I want everyone who goes into that room accompianied with the exception of Rosenberg, do you understand?”

The men nodded in unison as he walked past them and to Francis who was sat drinking coffee next to the water cooler.

“Francis.”

Francis shot up at once and looked to Fisk.

He looked wired.

“...How many of those things have you had?”

“I...uh...I...”

“It doesn't matter. Stay alert. I need you to take me to the Russians' place again, have a detail follow.”

 

*

 

 

Fisk walked into the Gym again and this time, the brothers were waiting. They looked distressed.

“Your men, they cannot come in.” Anatoly said, noting Francis and the three other men in suits that followed Fisk.

“They go where I go. Do not make me regret leaving my place at the hospital.” Fisk intoned quietly.

Vladimir looked to his brother and began speaking to him. Anatoly sighed, and then looked to Fisk before responding in equally fast Russian.

Finally, Anatoly relented and looked back to Fisk.

“The man at your side only.”

Fisk nodded.

“Now, come, what do you have?”

Vladimir pushed open a door to his left, it was marked: 'Janitor'.

Fisk pushed open the door a little more to let his wide frame in and noted that it smelled of damp and stale cleaning products but had clearly not been used as a Janitor's closet for some time.

There were around 6 monitors, a panel with dials and control pads, and a few crates in the corner that he guessed didn't contain toilet brushes.

“Security problem goes deeper than your man being shot on our doorstep.” Vladimir stated, sitting in the battered office chair. “Look.”

Fisk leaned in a little more as Francis stood back, watching his back.

He saw on the grainy monitor the security feed from the front of the building. It looked entirely uninteresting except for the absence of their car.

“...yes?”

“Keep watch.”

Vladimir spun the dial so that it speeded up. There was nothing there. No people walking. Occasionally, somebody would leave the Gym, but left the area entirely. Cars passed, and did just that. Pass by. Nothing stopped.

Fisk had to admit, the Russians really did control that part of town.

One by one, the others arrived with their entourages. Leland was first, he fussed around the car a little, briefed his body guard, some paid thug he put in a monkey suit to appear legitimate and then walked in.

Nobu was next, he appeared with two other men in suits, they appeared not to speak, and he too entered the gym.

Madame Gao was last of all, and she was assisted, reverantly by a man who aided her to the front door of the Gym.

Finally, his own car.

He watched himself enter the Gym with Wesley, watched as the cars, all of the cars remained entirely motionless until one by one, the others came out. Nobu first, Gao, Leland.

And they all moved off until the door opened again.

Himself and Wesley.

Fisk watched with tear inducing scrutiny, looking for anything that would indicate who did this.

He watched as he and Wesley spoke, and suddenly, they all reacted to sudden, silent chaos. A spark in the gutter, followed by muted uproar.

A second flash from the gutter and Wesley suddenly slumped, his one hand going to his stomach as the other one kept him firmly in the car.

He had been shot, and hadn't said a word until he was safe.

Wesley had saved his life, nearly paying for it with his own.

Fisk felt a sudden gravity that seemed to weigh him down to the floor.

He had only felt it once before when his mother had recieved the diagnosis o f Alzheimer's.

It was like a shocked grief.

Fisk swallowed the nausea as he watched himself get out of the car, see Wesley. Saw himself panic. Waste precious seconds that could have been better used to get Wesley some help.

It was like he was in hell and this was his torture.

“...What exactly do you have to show me, Vladimir?” snarled Fisk.

“Look. The cars on the street, they do not move. Not since 10.45 in the night evening before...”

“You dragged me away from the hospital to show me the parking situation on your street?”

Vladimir gave a crooked smirk.

“Follow me.”

 

*

 

Outside in the deserted street where several men appeared idle in strategic spots, Vladimir pointed to the areas the cars were parked.

“...Last night, I keep front of Gym clear for your car. I go outside, find these cars. I not worry. My men own cars, I assume they bring cars here. After incident, I find cars are gone. ALL cars are gone. I am thinking: 'Is suspicious' how they all leave.”

He looked to Fisk.

“Other cars parked over other grates. Leaving grate...” he nodded, pointing to where Fisk's car was now parked. “Free for you to park over.”

Fisk looked up and down the street, trying to superimpose the street from last night over it and yes, it had been left open for him. His vanity, his sense of self worth had put him in the firing line, and Wesley had paid for it.

But nobody had known he was going to be there, he always kept his whereabouts as secretive as possible. Only Wesley knew for certain where he would be.

“...Explain something to me, Vladimir.” he began quietly. “...Explain why there would be someone waiting to assassinate me, when only you and a few others knew of our plans?”

Anatoly looked to the grate again.

“...Is something we are working on.” he replied. “Is concern.”

Fisk took a deep breath.

Just then there was some shouting in Russian from the end of the street, a man was calling up towards Vladimir.

Vladimir ran towards the end of the street as his brother followed. 

Francis looked to Fisk who nodded to him to follow as he walked behind. His own men were not slow to follow.

At the alley at the end of the street, a man that was covered from the chest down in mud and leaves and all other manner of gutter mess was getting out of a manhole as other men slapped him on the back and made noises of approval in Russian.

He handed something to Anatoly that was in a plastic bag and Anatoly nodded, slapped him on the back and added his own appreciation before handing it to Vladimir.

“...Is a bullet.”

“In Hells Kitchen, that is hardly a remarkable find.”

Vladimir did not look appreciative.

“Sergei go down in sewers, crawling through shit to find clues as to who hurt your precious assistant...”

Anatoly took the bag and inspected it.

“...Is fresh.” he reported, peering at it and squinting. “And whole. Damaged.” he replied. 

He got even closer and Fisk smarted at how disgusting it must have smelled

“ _Didi, eto ne odin iz nashikh...”_

Vladimir seized the empty bag and stared at it, his scarred eye twitching.

“ _Togda boleye ser'yeznymi, chem my dumali.”_

Fisk stared at Vladimir as his expression darkened.

“...what?”

“...Is not important. Some business matter. I will call you when I have more information.”

“Tell me about that bullet!” Fisk rumbled.

Anatoly looked to him.

“...We have a matter to attend to. When we know more, I will call you.” and he followed after his brother.

Fisk didn't speak Russian. But Wesley did. 

He looked to Francis.

“...do you speak...Russian?”

Francis shook his head fearfully.

“No...I suppose not.”

Wesley would have known exactly what he said and what to respond with. And they would have never have attempted to keep him out of the loop if he was there.

He felt a little more alone now.

But that bullet was not the only one.

He reached into his pocket and dialed Rosenberg.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Rosenberg. I need to see the bullet.”


	8. Pallor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk returns to the hospital and must face certain possibilities
> 
>  
> 
> (I apologize, this is all filler. But enjoy!)

 

By the time Fisk had got back to the hospital with everything that the Russians had said to him about that night, the cars, the assassin, the bullet they had found, he knew he needed to see the bullet they retrieved from Wesley's lung cavity to get more information.

He was no gun-runner, but he 'authorized' those who did and knew that those under them would be answerable to this bullet as soon as he Identified it.

He turned to Francis.

“Go home, rest.”

Francis looked like he wanted to argue but the stern look in Fisk's face guaranteed he did not.

When he had left, Fisk walked through to Intensive Care and towards Wesley's room where a man stood awaiting Fisk's return.

“...They're bringin' him out of sedation. Rosenberg authorized it. Said that he wanted to know when reconstructive surgery was a viable option. Get him back on his feet.”

Fisk nodded to him and walked in before sitting down again.

He would track down Rosenberg in a little while, after he had had chance to eat and rest a little. The old man had been working flat out since he got here, and he was semi-retired. He did not wish to put the Doctor out.

“...I'm back, Wesley.” he began, picking up the book that had been moved to the cabinet. “...I have a lead. I just need to work on it. Then we'll know who did this to you...”

He looked to Wesley.

“They said that they were bringing you out of sedation. I wonder if this means that you can actually hear me now...” he asked, reaching for his hand again. “...I hope so...I've...missed your quiet companionship. Now...where were we?”

He removed the bookmark and began to read aloud again.

“... _There is one fairly good reason for fighting - and that is, if the other man starts it._

_You see, wars are a great wickedness, perhaps the greatest wickedness of a wicked species._

_They are so wicked that they must not be allowed. When you can be perfectly certain that the other man started them, then is the time when you might have a sort of duty to stop them_...”

Just then Francis entered the room.

“...Sir?”

“I thought I dismissed you.” Fisk rumbled, not looking up from the book.

“You did sir, I have Mr. Owlsley on the phone.”

Fisk made an impatient noise.

“Tell him I will call him back.”

“I did, Sir. But he told me that he wanted to speak to the organ grinder...and not the monkey.”

Fisk sighed heavily and looked to Wesley, half expecting him to be making the expression he usually did when Leland's name was mentioned.

Of course, he was not.

“...I will deal with the call.”

Francis dropped the cell phone into his hand and made a retreat.

He stood up and headed out of the room and took the cell phone, rapidly pacing towards the vending machine area just outside of ICU where he was free to use his cell.

“...Yes.”

“Has everyone stopped working in Hells Kitchen?!” Came Leland's angry, completely inoffensive tones.

“Leland. What is it?” Fisk asked abruptly.

“There's a fine greeting...” he grumbled a little. “Hows your man?”

“He's stable.” Fisk replied flatly.

“Do you know who did it yet?”

“What do you need, Leland?” Fisk asked, trying to get to the crux of the matter.

“Union Allied.”

“Is this important? Can it wait?”

“It can. And the longer we want, the more difficult it will be to deal with. I tried to raise this topic with you at our last meeting but you seemed to be more interested in buttering up the Ruskies!”

“I would urge you...” he began, running his thumb along a window ledge. “...to mind your tone, Leland.”

Leland sighed heavily.

“Fine...Fine. Let it wait. It can wait. Sure, it can wait. Just, if it all blows up, don't say that I didn't warn you.”

“Noted.”

“Listen. I hope your assistant makes it through alright...”

“I appreciate that, Leland.”

“...Should I invest in security? Perhaps hire a more permanent body guard? Maybe take out a life insurance policy for my wife?”

Fisk sighed and simply terminated the call and walked back towards the ICU before handing Francis' phone back to him.

“...Thank you, Francis.”

Francis was staring at Wesley's room, his eyes wide and his jaw set. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

He walked back towards the Wesley's room again, ready to finish the chapter at least before he went to find Rosenberg only to see Rosenberg standing over Wesley, holding him still while another Doctor and a nurse worked on him. 

“Wesley?”

He ran to his door and at once the same nurse he had spoken to before was there, her hands in blue gloves as Fisk tried to look past her to Wesley.

He was shaking violently on the bed as the two Doctors restrained him.

“...What...what's happening?!” he asked.

“Mr. Wesley, you need to let them help him. You can't do anything in there.” She began calmly. Her big brown eyes wide with sincerity.

He couldn't take his eyes off him.

His back was arched, his limbs were contorted at strange, inflexible angles and there were monitors going off. He was making strange grunting noises that seemed to choke out on the tube in his throat.

“He's having a seizure.” she began, trying to catch his attention again.”

A flash of red caught Fisk's attention as fresh blood began to bloom through the white padding on his stomach. At once, Rosenberg's hand was on it and was pressing against it.

“Claire!” the Doctor called. “We could use you.”

The nurse looked back.

“I have to go.” she said, turning away from him.

Fisk looked at her, gripping her elbow to keep her there.

“Fix it. Fix it now.” he uttered.

The nurse nodded and moved back into the room.

Fisk felt numb.

Completely numb.

He swung on his heel and turned away from it, and the blank image of the wall at his mothers house swam into view.

He wished, so much that he could call his mother. His mother would know what to say...if she even remembered who Wesley was.

He looked around for Francis,and realized that the man had probably excused himself. Francis spent a lot more time with Wesley than any of the others.

He resigned to sit in the waiting area of the ICU.

He felt completely and utterly alone.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, his ears burning, his eyes strained as he picked out the patterns on the laminate floor of the ICU department that was a nauseating fading aqua colour but soon he heard Rosenberg's voice.

“...Take him through, I'll be there shortly.”

Fisk stood up in time to see them moving Wesley who was now still once more on the bed, his stomach bleeding again. They were feeding him oxygen on an inflatable ball type device.

“Where are you taking him?” he asked urgently, his eyes following.

“To theater. The seizure caused the stitching to rip externally, and we think internally.”

Fisk shook his head.

“No, he was getting better, they were bringing him out of sedation. He was getting better!”

“Wilson, please. Go home. Rest. This is going to take a while.”

“He needs me. He doesn't have any family, or anyone close to him. I need to be here for him. He's my friend.”

“Wilson.” Rosenberg almost chided, holding him by the arms and looking into his face. “...Please. Rest for his sake. He will need you when he is conscious again.”

Fisk felt like he was slipping backwards.

Rosenberg followed Wesley to the elevator where Claire, and the other Doctor were keeping him stable, pressure on his stomach.

Fisk felt torn between smashing up the waiting area, throwing the coffee table through the glass partitioning and screaming, or simply heading home and awaiting for news.

He opted for the latter.

He stood up, and headed to the corridor where he had just taken the phone call to find Francis stood staring at his phone unblinkingly.

“...Francis.”

Francis looked up. He had a pallor on him that reminded Fisk of the first time he strangled someone in front of Wesley.

It was a paleness that betrayed the person's attempts at normality and poise.

“...I would like it if you could drive me back to my place.”

He nodded quickly, slipping his phone away and walking towards the doors.

Fisk and Francis did not speak until Francis was 15 minutes into the car journey.

“...Sir?”

Fisk had been staring out of the window. Thinking about what he would do if he lost Wesley, and no, he was not so foolish as to believe that was not a distinct possibility.

“...yes?”

“What happened?”

Francis was no older than 28, he had the beginnings of stress lines, but still retained the vestiges youthfulness that Fisk lost early on in his life. Sometime after he had moved to the farm when his elderly aunt would ask him to behead the chickens, slowly progressing to butchering some of the animals for meals.

Their blood was never quite as thick or as persistent as his fathers.

Fisk took a deep breath.

“He had a seizure. His stitches were ripped by the exertions. He will be in theater.”

Francis kept his eyes on the road and nodded once before remaining silent.

Fisk knew that this had shook his men and though he did not doubt their resilience but Wesley was their immediate superior. He told them what to do, where to go, what they were expected to do, and without him, they were at a loss.

Fisk rarely had to speak to them, and if it was, it was usually accompanied by addendum by Wesley.

Without him, both Fisk and the men were disconnected.

Francis accompanied Fisk to his door and then left after confirming he would be available when he next called.

As Fisk stood under the almost too hot heat of the shower, he tried to piece together a contingency for how he would replace Wesley, should he die in theater.

How could you replace someone as indispensable and as loyal as Wesley?


	9. Hard Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk finally gets closer to finding who tried to kill Wesley

“ _I have heard...” Fisk began quietly as he circled the man who was sat on the chair in the darkened room. “...you have been making arrangements to leave the country, Lloyd.”_

_The besuited man sat in front of Wesley shook his head._

“ _If I was, sir. Be certain you would hear of it before my travel agent.” he smirked, looking up at Fisk._

_Fisk was not smiling._

“ _Wesley, do you have a copy of Mr. Lloyd's travel itinerary.”_

“ _Yes, Sir.”_

_Wesley stood up and handed the folder to him with precision, smiling unpleasantly down at the man who was sat in front of them, a bead of sweat on his brow._

“ _It says here...that you've booked a flight to Okinawa. And emptied your bank account.” Fisk continued._

“ _Oh?” the man seemed surprised with the quaver of doubt in his voice._

_Wesley's unpleasant smile grew._

“ _Did you forget?” he asked with a mocking pout. “It's fortunate we reminded you.”_

_The man looked up at Fisk._

_Fisk knew that he was on the verge of two things. Either apologizing profusely and begging forgiveness or being flippant and insulting his way out of trouble._

_Both would end the same way._

“ _Fuck you.” the man pronounced, spite contorting ordinarily handsome features. “Fuck you and fuck everything you do. You aren't shit, and you're not Rigoletto. You never will be. You're a pussy who hides behind his me--”_

_Fisk's hands were around his throat before he could finish the sentence. His thumbs pressing down on his windpipe as he barely batted an eyelid._

_At his side, Wesley unfolded his arms and looked a little concerned._

“ _The problem is...Lloyd...” Fisk began. “...I am not Rigoletto.” He pressed a little harder. “...And I do not hide behind my men...”_

“ _...Sir...” Wesley began hesitantly._

“ _I...Lloyd, take things personally, especially, traitors, double agents who report back on what I do to people I don't get along with...”_

_He pressed harder and there was a sickening crunch a he collapsed his voice box._

_The man slid to the floor, dead._

_Fisk cracked his neck to the left and looked down at the puce coloured man who was now going to be an issue for the aquatic police in a few months time._

“ _...Peter. Put Lloyd in the water. Make sure he doesn't float.”_

_As Peter moved the man from in front of Fisk, Fisk turned to Wesley who was stood there, his lips parted, a light film of sweat on his face._

“ _...Wesley...” began Fisk, pouring some coffee from the coffee pot on the desk. “...When I asked you to come and work for me, I informed you of what it may entail. And I said that if you so much as doubted your ability to cope with it that you were to decline.”_

_Wesley took off his glasses and looked to Fisk._

“ _I...Its just the first time I've seen someone get killed before.”_

_Fisk looked at him._

“ _It will not be your last. Of course, if you wish to leave, I will understand.”_

_Fisk knew that no matter if Wesley told everything he knew at the precinct, he wouldn't achieve anything by it. He had too many of the men on payroll, and he would simply dispose of him._

_Though in all honesty, he had been impressed with his work and would hope that wouldn't be necessary._

_Wesley ran his hands down his pale face and put his glasses back on._

“ _...I do not...wish to leave.” Wesley replied. “...I just...need to...” he sighed and unbuttoned his jacket before leaning on the desk. “...become accustomed to it, I guess.”_

_Fisk pushed the coffee in front of him._

“ _Have a drink...” he suggested as he saw Peter load the body of Lloyd into the car. “...get some of your color back.”_

_Wesley took the cup._

“ _...thank you, Sir.” he replied and sipped it shakily._

“ _This job isn't for everyone, James.” Fisk began. “...But I rather think you fit it better than some...” he said looking at Peter closing the boot on Lloyd._

_Wesley looked to Fisk, some redness appearing back in his cheeks._

_He gave a firm nod._

_Fisk sighed._

“ _...Mr. Lloyd will need to catch his flight to Okinawa...” he replied stiffly. “So that Rigoletto doesn't query it.”_

“ _...I'll attend to it.” Wesley replied._

 

*

Fisk looked at the same paleness in the same face and wondered if he had simply allowed his assistant to walk away that night if things would be any better.

He wondered if Wesley would be married now, or have children. He didn't seem the type to enjoy the typical 2.4 children with a housewife and a happy little home on the outskirts of New York City.

Fisk had never recalled Wesley mentioning girlfriends, or boyfriends for that matter.

After all, how much freedom could he have when he was needed to be at Fisk's beckoned call every day.

Fisk sighed deeply and looked to Wesley.

He had been brought back from surgery around an hour ago with a promise that a doctor would be coming down to see him shortly.

Wesley's side had been taped up with copious amounts of pads and dressings and though he remained on a ventilator, and was considerably paler than before, he did not fit the image Fisk had dreamt up on the way here this morning.

Francis had greeted him at 7am with a cup of coffee after Fisk had called him at 6 to collect him.

Wesley's phone had gained four new missed calls and though Fisk had charged it diligently, he was still none the closer to accessing it.

On the way there, he had typed in the date that he had started to work for him, the date of his own mothers birthday as Wesley's attention to detail and confidentiality had made it a viable option.

He tried all of the digits of his own phone number in four digit intervals, all to no avail.

He even tried the very basic 1-2-3-4, or 1-1-1-1 in case Wesley had pulled a double bluff and tried the exact opposite.

Wesley wondered if it were perhaps a very personal number like vital statistic, or the date of a 'first' encounter of some kind, but resigned himself to the fact he would never know that.

Finally, he tried the date of the day he was injured in case he changed it daily.

But even that failed.

It was hopeless.

He looked to Wesley on the bed and then to the envelope sat in his hand.

It was heavy, weighted in one corner and contained the bullet that Rosenberg had managed to retrieve from the first surgery. It had been locked in an evidence case.

No police would report it missing, at the hospital staff were too busy to note its absence. And Fisk now had something to follow.

Finally, Rosenberg came back.

He looked exhausted. It had to be at least 18 hours since the man had closed his eyes last, but he seemed to be in good spirits.

“...Doctor Rosenberg, you should be resting.”

“I will rest soon, Wilson.”

“Why did he have that seizure, Doctor?”

“We're still looking into it. When he was being brought out of the induced coma, there is sometimes a minor risk of seizure. Very minor risk. Unfortunately, Wesley was the exception. The seizure caused him to rupture his stitches, both internally and externally, but I was able to begin reconstructive surgery.”

“...And?” Fisk prompted.

“I'm very proud of the work I did, Wilson. It was not easy, but providing he pulls through for us, we can rest assure that there will be minimal need for a second surgery.”

Fisk took the doctors hand and shook it.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No, please. It's my job.” Rosenberg demured and looked to him. “...When he's stable again. We'll try again.”

He nodded.

“Please. Take the best room in your hotel. I will cover everything.”

Rosenberg smiled, shaking his head fondly and left the room.

Fisk looked back to his assistant. Relief stemming through him, knowing that at least they were on the right side of it now.

He sat on the bed.

“You've never been afraid of hard work, James. Now's the time to prove it...”

_Hard work..._

He opened the envelope in his hand and pulled out a small plastic bag that had 'EVIDENCE' written across it including a date, and string of numbers which was probably the police crime number.

He inpected the bullet.

It was damaged, blood stained, but intact enough to be ID'd should he need it.

He was going to take it to the Ranskahov's and demand to know if they knew where it had come from.

Then he would follow it to the gun, to the person, and personally obliterate them as slowly and as painfully as was necessary.

That would bring him deep satisfaction.

He got out his phone and dialed Anatoly, the less abrasive of the two brothers.

“Speak.” came the response.

“I have the bullet they pulled out of Wesley...And I was wondering if you'd be _kind_ enough to identify it for me.”

 

*

Fisk had decided that if anything needed attending to, it would be at the hospital on his terms now that things looked a little more culpable on the Ranskahov's side.

He had asked the brothers to come to the intensive care unit and meet him outside with Francis acting in Wesley's normal place.

He found a blind spot away from security patrols and cameras and awaited the brothers.

Amongst the visitors carrying flowers and books, the two tattooed, scarred brothers looked very alien as they walked through, Vladimir with a self assured swagger, Anatoly a half pace behind.

Vladimir walked straight up to him with out preamble and began:

“Nice place to meet. Ve-r-r-y inconspicuous.”

Fisk breathed air out of his nose hard to show his lack of appreciation and patience.

“Where is bullet?” asked Anatoly.

Fisk opened his hand and revealed the blood stained bullet in the palm of his hand.

“ _N_ _everoyatno!”_

Anatoly held out his palm and Fisk let it roll into his hand.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Anatoly studied it, scratching away the blood.

“...we mark our ammo. Helps us know if someone shoot our own bullet at us.”

“You individually mark every bullet in every shipment?” Fisk asked incredulously.

“Is worth it. We find it helps us identify our customers...and their enemies.”

Fisk sniffed in amusement. It was worth noting.

“This not ours.” he pronounced finally handing it back. “No markings.”

Vladimir patted his brother heavily on the back.

“Your paranoia is validated brother.”

“...Nothing passes through this city without your stamp of approval. If someone is bringing in ammo, guns without your say so, then I am sadly misinformed of the grip you have on this part of the city.” Fisk replied grimly.

Vladimir looked to him.

“You are too quick with your tongue.” he bristled. “Look for man called Barett. We permit him to sell, we take small margin.”

“And does he keep records?”

Anatoly looked to Fisk.

“Perfect Records.”

*

 

Fisk had sent Francis and two others to arrange a meeting with this man Barrett along with Anatoly.

He had instructed him to use his judgement wisely and bait the hook well to ensure he was interested enough to give facts.

Fisk did not feel like bruising his knuckles today, unless he really had to.

He was slightly annoyed as his book that he had been reading to Wesley so diligently had been misplaced by the housekeeping staff and now he had to wait for a new copy to arrive from the Waterstones store tomorrow so now he was trying to make small talk.

They had been in earlier and given him a bed bath which involved a lot of far too vigorous rubbing with flannels that left his skin slightly inflamed for a short time and changing his bedding and sleeping garments.

Fisk had looked elsewhere in shyness but insisted in staying regardless. He wasn't leaving Wesley without protection and Fisk would burst the eyeballs of anyone who dared to try.

Fisk looked to Wesley.

“...Mother has started eating Zuppa before bed. I worry about her...sugar levels...” he smiled, his fingers interlocked as he rested his elbows on the chair. “The doctor says that she's spry for her age. And well looked after, but I worry. Diabetes, killed my grandfather before I was born. She would...bake Zuppa for me when I was a child...Whenever I was unwell...or sad...which was...fairly often...probably didn't help with my size...I...”

Wesley made a soft groan next to him. A sound between a strangled yawn and a sigh.

Fisk looked to him.

“...Wesley?”

Wesley attempted to swallow and when he found the tube impeding it began to cough, choke.

Fisk slammed his hand into the call button.

“Wesley stay calm. You're alright. Do you hear me?”

Wesley's eyes snapped open. Bright blue and panicked. The pupil rapidly shrinking as it came into contact with the overhead light.

Fisk moved to his line of sight and nodded as his friends eyes locked onto his.

It was unnerving.

But it was a relief.

“You're alright. Wesley.” Fisk repeated, his heart beating fast and hard. “You're alright.”

Wesley's eyes seemed to lose their intial panicked glaze as they met his and he blinked sleepily before closing his eyes.

 

 


	10. Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk finally finds who the bullet that left Wesley so gravely injured was truly intended for

Fisk was pacing outside of Intensive Care, waiting for the Doctor to return.

He hadn't dared call Rosenberg who was no doubt sleeping off a 20 hour shift and had to be assured that these doctors knew what they were doing.

Wesley had woken up.

Fisk had hoped for it, if he had still been religious, as his mother still was, he would have prayed for it. But he had never dared believe it.

He had been under the impression after surgery, he would continue to be sedated to help him heal, but it seemed that he had simply woken up.

And it was a relief.

So much was going through Fisk's mind.

He needed to ask so much and he needed to know so much, he had so many questions that were speeding around his head like bullets in a gunfight and yet there was one, big, domineering issue.

Wesley needed rest.

Fisk had always been fed the truth by Wesley. Hard truths that were unpleasant. Unkind.

But they had always been palatable when delivered.

Wesley had been his buffer.

He had taken the bad news, and cut off the sharp edges. Padded it with bubble wrap and handed it to him carefully.

So he could deal with it effectively.

And now he was the one handling Wesley with kid gloves.

He had never looked more broken.

Fisk had decided the first thing he would say, if Wesley was still awake when he got in there again, was that he had been injured, and that it was being taken care of. And that Rosenberg had been called and had fixed the injury.

Of course, he would need to know the code to Wesley's phone to deal with the influx of phone calls and messages that had been accruing—but that would prompt Wesley to return the calls and messages and he did not want that.

Fisk decided the best course of action would be to keep the conversation away from work.

He nodded and cracking his knuckles a final time turned back towards the ICU where he almost knocked the kind nurse he had spoken to before off her feat.

“I'm so sorry...” he began. “I did not see you.”

She shook her head.

“I'm just grateful you weren't covered in vomit. These are my second set of scrubs today...”

Fisk looked at her appraisingly, awaiting information.

“James is...what we call semi-conscious. He's still largely under sedation from the operation but his intubation disturbed him enough to wake him—despite our best efforts. It sometimes happens.” she replied. “We're going to move him onto oxygen which will give him the help he needs.”

“Semi-conscious? Can I talk to him?”

She nodded.

“But he may not respond. He may sleep for the next 12 hours, he may wake up in five minutes and talk to you about when you were children or what he plans to do next month. Every case is different, Mr. Wesley. We're just running some tests as we're seeing some symptoms consistent with infection which isn't exactly unusual in gunshot wounds but we want to be certain he's recovering well.”

Fisk nodded.

“Thank you.”

He walked past her into the suite again and glanced to the other rooms. Rooms he had never looked to before.

Were they full?

Were there people in there too?

With relatives awaiting the day the patients woke?

Reading to them, hoping their loved ones were listening?

He had been existing in this void of suffering. Of loneliness.

This bubble of misery where he had not considered that he was not alone in this.

He walked back into Wesley's room where he was now in a more reclined position, a nasal oxygen tube in his nose, his lips cracked and dry but now together restfully.

Fisk moved in, and sat awkwardly on his bed, trying not to rouse him.

He picked up his hand and held it in his own, warmly.

“...Wesley...? Can you hear me?”

Wesley did not stir. His eyes were creased together sleepily, a light film of sweat on his face as he rested.

Fisk felt somewhat defeated.

It was perhaps something to do with the fact that he was so sure this was going to be recovery, but it may have also been something to do with the fact that Wesley had always been so present. And now that he was able to wake up, he was still not able to help him.

It was not frustration, but it felt like defeat.

And Fisk did not like the feeling of defeat.

He sighed and ran his hand through Wesley's hair, tucking the wayward curls back.

“...Take your time. I can wait...” he lied, sitting back on the chair besides his bed.

Fisk sat, watching Wesley breathe. A privilege, he was beginning to feel now after watching a machine force oxygen into his chest.

It seemed so much kinder, somehow. Gentler.

And in time with the ticking of his watch that was now laying next to his glasses on the bedside cabinet.

Fisk smiled as he listened to the gentle, reliable ticking sound and how it fell in time with his assistants peaceful breathing.

He had never been able to wear a watch. His wrists were always far too big and even though he could now afford to have a watch extended to fit him, the idea of having time constantly ticking away at his side made him feel uncomfortable.

Just then, his assistant's phone buzzed.

He picked it up and looked to it. It was still locked and the messages and missed calls had increased.

He sighed and put the phone back.

Another message that would need to wait.

He wondered if Wesley's family, if he had any, were trying to reach their son, or brother. If he had friends that had missed his presence.

Fisk should probably have asked more, questioned more, taken more numbers in the event of an accident or an incident.

His phone began to buzz.

He picked it up.

“...Speak.”

“Sir. It's Francis.”

“Francis...” he acknowledged.

“We've found your lead, sir. He didn't want to stay and chat, so we persuaded him to stay and chat.”

Fisk took a deep breath and huffed it out through his nose.

“Where is he?”

 

*

 

Fisk had one of the men drive him to the address that Francis had sent him by text, leaving someone to actually sit with Wesley now instead of guarding by his door.

He chose the most senior of Wesley's men to sit with him, knowing if he woke, he would need a familiar face.

He had told him not to tell Wesley where he was and instead that he was resting. Wesley would accept that.

Turk Barrett, it turned out, was a small time guns dealer and someone Wesley had already got on file. Francis had managed to remember the name and had drawn up the information Wesley had accrued on him.

He had a number of convictions. Mostly petty offences such as burglary, pimping and so on and so forth. Ran a shop by appointment out of a warehouse and shifted guns on the side for the Russians.

A slippery customer by all accounts who had some hired muscle, but nothing with any real loyalty or backbone.

Francis had paid his way in, and when Turk had tried to taze his way out of the situation John had managed to knock him out and tie him to a chair.

Fisk got out of the car, checked his jacket and nodded to the driver to keep the engine running before heading in with Peter at his heels.

When he got in there, Francis was stood next to the door awaiting his arrival.

“Sir.” he greeted. “He's through here...”

He noticed Francis was nursing his hand that looked a little cut and bruised.

It seemed he had been softening Barrett up.

Fisk walked through the filthy doorways and bowed his head as he entered the stale, smokey room where his men stood, walling the room where the man sat, dazed on the wooden chair.

“...Mr. Barrett.”

The black man looked up at him, his blood shot eyes rolling.

“...the fuck are you?”

Fisk sighed as Peter punched some manners into him.

Turk spat out some blood.

“Awh man...its cool man...its all cool...” he wheezed, blood dribbling down his chin.

“You're being very impolite.” Fisk remarked in an offhand manner. “When all I wanted was to...ask a few questions...regarding your stock.”

“I just run guns for the Russians. Ask them.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bullet they pulled from Wesley and held it 8 inches from Barrett's nose.

“...They pulled this...from my assistant.” Fisk pronounced gravely. “It was destined for my heart...Or my head. Now, I know you don't know who I am...or how I found you...But I know that this bullet, by process of elimination, was sold by you. Do you...recognize it?”

“I only sell...to people the Russians let me sell to.”

“I am told you keep immaculate records.” Fisk replied.

“I don't keep track...”

Fisk sighed and looked to Peter.

Peter lined up a fresh punch.

“WAIT!”

Fisk held his hand up to still Peter's hand.

“...I...Let me...let me check the casing, man. Let me...check the serial number...check the batch...I'll find the guy who did it. Look man, I don't want any more shit. Okay?”

Fisk stood back and looked to Francis and nodded.

Francis let the man free of the rope binding his wrists and ankles.

The man rubbed at his wrist and looked up to find Peter holding a gun to his face.

“...My men are...disturbed by the state of uncertainty...regarding the assassination attempt on their superior. Their nerves are...frayed. I would not give them a reason to pull the trigger, Mr. Barrett.”

The man dutifully got up, accepted the bullet casing and studied it before going to his laptop on the desk and typing some information. Blood continued to ooze out of his lip where Peter had split it and he didn't care to lick it away.

Finally Barrett sat back and looked to Fisk.

“...I don't suppose I get anything outta this, do I?” he sighed and looked to his screen.

Fisk remained mute.

“...You ever heard of the Ivanov boys?” Barrett asked finally, sitting back in the chair.

Fisk looked to Francis who gave the slightest shake of the head.

“Not yet.” Fisk replied.

“Not surprised. Those mother-fuckers ain't been shit since the Ranskahov's got in around these parts.”

“...Rivals?” Fisk prompted.

“Oh man, that ain't even close. These fucking ass-holes roll up in here, ask for some hardware. I ask what they need. They tell me they need something that's gonna get the job done. Tear open some organs. Smash through some bone. Spill some Ranskahov blood, you know what I mean? I sell them that shit right there.” he said, pointing a dirty finger at the bullet on the desk.

The bullet on the desk...

Had never been meant for him...or Wesley...

Or any of them...

The bullet had been meant for Vladimir and Anatoly...

A rival gang unseating someone important in the Ranskahov's organization to deal a powerful blow to their operations, and they had simply been victims of misfortune.

A strange stillness came over him, like a shroud of relief and realization that there were OTHER threats they had not considered.

“...askin' for a real nice piece to go with it. Somethin' that wasn't gonna lock up on them in the damp, get jammed with grit, somethin' with a nice long barrel. If they pulled that thing outta your boy, you damn lucky he's still alive.”

“...They were trying to kill the Ranskahov's.”

Barnett smiled, splitting his lip again. A self assured cocky grin.

“Wrong place, wrong time. Shit happens. Especially in Hell's Kitchen.”

“...I need you to come with me. You are going to inform this to the Ranskahov's.”

“Are you shittin' me?! I ain't gonna admit to the Ranskahov's I sold shit to their rival gang to kill them with. Those ass-holes gonna cut me up and serve me up for supper!”

“...if you do not, I will personally bisect you with my bare hands.”


	11. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fisk finally finds closure, in more ways than one.
> 
> Note: Translations for Russian and Chinese are at the end of the chapter.

Peter and John flanked Barnett as they marched him into the Gym where the Ranskahov's were waiting.

The fact he was walking rapidly probably had a lot to do with the two barrels of the pistols rammed either side of his ribcage.

After all, he was a condemned man, heading to the gallows for his final moments, perhaps.

Fisk followed behind, his shadow going ahead and darkening the dim, flickering lights.

Not even the Ranskahov's men bothered to stop. They knew who this was and they knew that if Fisk was manhandling him, he'd probably deserved it.

John threw open the door of the office where Vladimir and Anatoly were enjoying a drink with Sergei, their second in command.

“Chto yebat' eto!” Vladimir exclaimed, standing and slamming his glass down at the interruption.

“You know this man.” Fisk replied as John and Peter threw him to the floor. “He supplies an outlet for your guns.”

Anatoly looked at him.

“...and?”

“Why don't you ask him who his customers are? The one who bought this...”

He let the bullet that had been sat in the snug of his hand for the last hour drop to the floor at the Russian's feet.

Vladimir's rage calmed into a cool, calm expression, the scars slackening on his roughly shaven face.

He looked to Barrett.

“...who did you sell this thing to...”

It wasn't even a question. It was a demand for information. It was the eye of the storm.

Barrett looked to Vladimir.

“Look man...”

Vladimir went to hit him as Barrett flinched.

“IVANOV!” he practically screamed

Anatoly looked to his brother quickly as his brother cursed in Russian.

“YOU SOLD TO OUR ENEMY?!”

“It was business! I have records. I know where they are, what they're gonna do man!”

Vladimir turned over his desk, the drinks with it, glass and Vodka spraying over.

He was beyond rage, his eyeballs popping, his face contorted as Fisk stood back.

“Ty prodal pulyu, kotoraya ub'yet nas k vragu ?! Vy ne loyal'ny , vy gnoynykh meshok der'ma loshadi ! YA budu yest' vashu pechen'!”

“Podozhdite!” Sergei shouted. “...What use is beating him for? You beat him, you tip off Ivanov.”

Anatoly sighed furiously.

“Sergei is right, brother. If we kill him, we lose.”

Vladimir turned and pushed his brother away.

“AND DO WHAT?! LET IVANOV BASTARDS SHOOT AT US AND BOW OUR HEADS?! I WILL NOT BOW TO THOSE FUCKS!”

“Be calm!” Anatoly yelled, grabbing his brother by the arms. “We are strong. Stronger. They know this, which is why they did this. And now, brother, we have the advantage.”

Vladimir shook off his brother, and trod to the window, through the broken glass towards the window that was partly borded up.

Barrett looked up at Fisk and then back at Anatoly.

“...I know where they are.” he offered.

“SHUT UP.” Snarled Vladimir as he stared out of the window, thinking.

“...I ask only, that the men who did this suffer...until their last breath.” Fisk interjected quietly. “...I had hoped that I would be the one to end their lives...But given the novel circumstances, I will gift that right to you.”

Vladimir turned slightly as Anatoly turned around to face him awkardly.

“...Is our problem. We deal with.”

“No.” Fisk responded. “It is your honor. Believe me, there would not be any force on earth that would stop me from killing him if I felt it was my duty. But this is a slight on your house. I expect you to deal with it accordingly.”

Vladimir turned and looked to Barrett. He had finally made up his mind it had seemed.

He walked over and knelt in front of where Barrett was. He took his jaw between his thumb and forefinger and spoke, inches from the man's face.

“...You will tell, where and when these people will be. And you will come with us. If you are mistaken, I will take your eyeball. Yes?”

“Su-Sure man, whatever...yeah.” Barrett nodded.

Fisk looked to Anatoly, the calmer of the two.

“...do we have an agreement?”

Anatoly looked to his brother who stood up and walked back to the window, still enraged.

“...Is good.” he nodded.

Fisk nodded to his men to leave and looked to Vladimir.

“...text me with proof. I want to show Wesley when he wakes.”

 

*

 

“Mistaken...identity?”

The mans voice was laced with lazy disbelief. Then again, that was Leland's default tone.

“Indeed.”

“I've just hired a damn bodyguard on a 3 month contract all because some guy couldn't hit the right man? Ugh...”

“I'm sure you can use him as your chauffeur. Bartender. Agony Aunt...” Fisk remarked, knowing if Wesley was conscious he would have appreciated the remark.

“Hilarious.” Snarked Leland. “...How is your man?”

Fisk looked over to Wesley who was still sleeping soundly, his colour vastly improved and his breathing slow and even as it crisped through the newly donned hospital gown.

“He's making a steady improvement. The Doctor has given him a reasonable prognosis.”

“That's good. That's...good.”

Fisk knew Leland didn't give a damn about Wesley, he was making small talk, and badly.

“I will contact you soon.” he said, and hung up to save Leland the effort.

He had one new picture message.

Opening it, he was greeted with a High definition picture of what looked like a one sided massacre. Blood, bone and brains all over the shot.

The Russians seemed particularly gifted with brutality. It was a fitting death for the crime.

When Wesley had more of a stomach for it, he would show him.

There was a text message waiting from an unknown number.

It disgruntled him a little. It would mean changing his number again—but it may have been important.

He opened it.

_'Got ur number thru Sergei. Thx for saving my ass 2day. U need me for anything. Just call. T.'_

Fisk scoffed lightly.

Help? From a traitorous gun runner like him?

Still, it couldn't hurt to open a file...

He put his phone away and looked to Wesley.

“Your...would be assassin, is dead. I will not bore you with the details, but be assured....They suffered greatly.”

In an ideal world, this news would have woken him, and he would have awakened, completely recovered and sentient, expressing happiness at the news.

But this was not an ideal world.

Not yet.

But soon, when he was in a position to do that, he would start with this city. And then, perhaps...further.

Fisk sighed and sat back, listening to the intent ticking of the watch that remained undisturbed at Wesley's bedside next to his cell phone that was loaded with texts, missed calls, email reminders, calender reminders, alerts and alarms that had all gone unanswered.

He sighed and reached for the phone again, knocking the watch onto the tiled floor.

Fisk's breath stilled in his chest as he hoped that the watch had withstood the short fall on the hard service.

The watch looked expensive, so Wesley awakening to his pricey watch having a cracked face would have been painful to witness.

Wesley did enjoy his material luxuries.

He leaned in and picked it up, carefully.

The face was intact still. Not even scratched.

He sighed in relief and turned it over to inspect the back when four digits on the back of the watch stared up at him.

**2-6-5-6**

The watches reference code, or something...

With shaking hands, Fisk placed the watch face down on the bed and reached for the phone again, typing in the four digit number as the watch ticked expectantly.

**2-6-5-6**

The phone unlocked revealing 19 missed calls, 30 unread text messages. 14 unanswered emails, 12 calender incidents, and 14 updates pending.

Fisk almost laughed.

All this time, it had been on the back of the watch. He had used something that nobody would think of. Something constantly hidden, on the back of his wrist.

He looked to Wesley and shook his head in disbelief.

“...You never cease to amaze me, James.” he rumbled quietly, shaking his head in awe.

Fisk did not wish to pry and knew the phones messages and voice mails were private so he simply locked the phone again and memorized the code.

Hopefully, he would never have to handle the phone again.

 

*

 

That night, a courier had delivered the copy of The Once and Future King and Fisk, after finding the right spot once again, had continued to read quietly to Wesley, trying to ensnare his mind back from the sedation it was still bogged down in.

The nurse had informed him that it would probably help James feel better, but that he was not in any pain.

Fisk knew that he was reading to Wesley because it felt better than a still, unbroken silence.

“--A chaos of mind and body - a time for weeping at sunsets and at the glamour of moonlight - a confusion and profusion of beliefs and hopes, in God, in Truth, in Love, and in Eternity - an ability to be transported by the beauty of physical objects --”

“--a heart to ache or swell- a joy so joyful and a sorrow so sorrowful that oceans could lie between them...”

Fisk looked up to see who had been speaking with him as he finished the paragraph and saw Wesley staring at the ceiling, his bright blue eyes shining in the paleness of his face, his dry lips parted as the final words of the text died on them.

“...Wesley..?” he asked incredulously.

Wesley was staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly, his eyes darting as he pieced together the last few days.

“...I...I...always hated...that book...It...was far too...pretentious...” he murmured painfully.

Fisk was so happy he could have eaten the damn book but he tried to contain himself for the sake of his injured assistant.

“...Wesley...” Fisk replied, putting the book down and leaning in., not applying any pressure to the bed. “...Are you in pain?”

“...I think I was shot in the stomach...sir...” he murmured, squinting and furrowing his brow. “...I think pain is...expected.”

“I'll find someone, someone to help.” Fisk began, getting up.

“No...” Wesley murmured, shaking his head, his eyes moving to where Fisk was sat. They moved mistily over him, scanning him. He must have found what he was looking for because he lay back, and sighed heavily in what seemed to be relief.

There was a moment of stillness.

“...You saved my life, James.” Fisk began softly, looking at his assistant's hand that was now pawing at the padding from where he had been shot. “...You took a bullet for me.”

“...I did...my job.” he breathed softly, closing his eyes.

“...You shouldn't---”

“I'd do it again.” he said finally.

Fisk felt extremely moved by the assertion his assistant gave, and was very thankful that his friend could not see the emotion that pricked behind his eyes now.

 

*

 

The following afternoon, Wesley was semi-propped up in bed wearing some unfamiliar dark green pyjamas.

He had asked Francis, who had been immensely happy to see his employer up and giving orders, to go to his apartment and bring some of his home comforts which included his work tablet and his phone charger.

Fisk had gone home some time last night after Wesley had been dosed up on pain medication and had fallen back into a sleep but had now returned with a different book to find him engaged in a conversation with Madame Gao over his cellphone.

“Bù, bù, fūrén Gāo. Zhè bù huì shì bìyào de. Wǒ yīnggāi shèzhì zhōusān shàngwǔ de huìyì. Wǒ gōngsī jiāng tígōng..." He looked to the tablet propped by on the bedside table. "...fānyì. Nà shì héshì de? Gǎnxiè nín de nàixīn děngdài zhè zuìhòu de yīzhōu nèi. Xièxiè. Zàijiàn."

“...I believe I asked you to rest.” Fisk rebuked him, putting the book on the table.

Wesley put his phone down besides his tablet and lay back in the bed, sighing as he did.

“You have an appointment, with Madame Gao, for Wednesday morning” he said, locking the tablet with a swipe of his finger. “...and...I seem to have rested enough.”

“You were shot in the stomach, Wesley. It's hardly a head cold.”

Wesley held his stomach and gave a weak cough.

“I had a lot to catch up on.” he replied thickly, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief and looking to Fisk. “...I had missed calls.”

“I would have answered them. But your phone was locked.” Fisk responded. “...It took me quite a while to crack the code...And it was smart. Using the reference number of your watch.”

Wesley gave a weak smile, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Pleased that his employer had cracked the code, it seemed.

“It seemed fitting.”

“Nobody knew. Not even your men.” he replied. “I asked Francis. Not even he knew the code.”

Wesley smiled a little wider.

“He would ask me frequently...about the code...” he began. “...Asked me to tell it to him...and...I always told him, that he simply _didn't have the time_...”

Fisk smiled appreciatively, looking down at his hands that were joined in his lap.

He had missed his assistant, his friend. He had missed his humor, his quiet support, his presence.

“...Wesley...I...”

Wesley's sleepy gaze turned to him, speculative and exhausted.

“...Thank you.”

Thank you would never be enough to explain Fisk's gratitude for everything Wesley did for him. His constant companionship, his dedication, his counsel, for taking that bullet.

But it was all that he could say.

Wesley gave a firm nod, a indefinite smile on his chapped lips.

“...Understood.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry about the crap translations. I am using google translate because I don't speak Russian or Chinese.
> 
> Russian Text Translation:  
> "What the fuck?!"  
> "You sold the bullet that would kill us to our enemy?! You are not loyal, you festering sack of horse shit! I will eat your liver!"  
> "Wait!"
> 
> Chinese:  
> "No, No, Madame Gao. That will not be necessary. Shall I set a meeting for Wednesday morning. I will provide a translator. Is that suitable? Thank you for your patience during this last week. Thank you. Good bye."


End file.
